“If I suck your dick good enough, can I be your girlfriend?” I asked.
“Yes,” my spouse said.
“Can I be your girlfriend now?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “You are my girlfriend.”
I slurped at his dick. He was enjoying my tongue rubbing the underside as I sucked. Then I swallow it.
Lately he’s been so horny, and I have been too. Doing it daily again is good for my health in every way. It helps me feel stable emotionally. And being connected to my spouse is important to me. We can weather any storm, especially if we’re coming on each other a lot.
It’s good for his health also. It makes us happy, and I theorize that it’s good for his prostate, to come every day at least once. Yes, I want to facilitate that.
Well, he shoved it so hard down my throat yesterday that I got a sore throat. But it wasn’t too bad. My throat feels better today.
I liked begging him for it. “Can I suck your dick? Please?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
I pretended he was withholding his dick from me. I asked sweetly. “Please give it to me.”
“I want to put the coconut oil on your lips again and shove this dick down your throat,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “Please give it to me. I want it. Sliding all slippery.”
Felt exaggerated, as he rubbed the coconut oil on my lips, and I was a slut for him, needing it. Moments later, he spurted his semen down my throat, and I was ready to receive all the good he had to give. It was a lot of come, considering he’s ejaculated into me less than 24 hours earlier.
To be a girlfriend feels dreamy, to me. Cherished, honored–an almost-naive role. I associate it with a fuzzy pink sweater and couples skate at the roller rink. Yes, we might hold hands. To be chosen and special. Ah, to be a girlfriend.
Can it last? Will I perform well and maintain my role? Or will I be shoved out of first place, my spot taken by a somehow superior person? Unknown, but for a short time at least, I’m wanted.
So badly, I wanted to be the girlfriend of that man I loved. I burned with desire to be his darling. Dear to him, loved in a special way, having a place in his life that was defined. I wanted to relax in a role. Nothing in me wanted to marry him, have children with him, curtail his freedom, or tread on his Mystery. I just wanted him to treasure me, reach out to me, value me, and fuck me countless times.
I never got that–I was no role but homegirl. I’m crying because I wanted it. If I gave enough, I thought he would learn I was a source of world-class love and choose to connect deeply. But it didn’t matter what I gave. Support, consistency, community, food, art–even my body. Nothing could make me good enough to be chosen by him.
Yes, I’m looking to be safe really bad. It has to do with being able to relax. If I knew I mattered to him, I could say, “Aaaah!’ and kick off my shoes, let down my hair, take off my clothes, and life would feel so much easier.
Other people smoke weed to relax, drink beer, or whatever method. I seek love, so I can relax.
I have an intense oxytocin response. Most people might get a 3 out of 10, which rumbles some joy into them. Bonding is facilitated–good work, body.
I get a rush of more like an 8 out of 10. My body is flooded with joy, sometimes so happy like I’ll pass out. Yes, to faint with joy. Sounds like fun, but not when needing that causes me to make poor choices and endanger my life and the lives of others.
My dad died of an overdose, and I liked to think I was better than him. I would never use like that! Then I read about how oxytocin works, and I learned that I just make my own drugs. I don’t need to purchase anything–instead I can cling onto someone I adore, and my body pumps out its own chemical comfort.
Yes, pet my hair. Kiss me–hold me. Let me come for you. It’s spiritual, emotional, physical, and addictive. No joke, to be a fool for love. I’m on that journey always.
My spouse is a safe person. He’s a reliable source of support, oxytocin, orgasms, food, shelter, fun, jokes, and all the care. But I’m an oxytocin slut, which makes me an addict. I fall in love–it doesn’t stop with just one. It’s not like alcohol where you can quit drinking. I can’t stop interacting with people.
I list the things I received, from the man I loved, and think of other ways to get those needs met. Scares me to think I will just fall in love with someone else and repeat the process with a different white guy. God I hope not.
It’s ok for me to love, get attached, and keep my eggs in many baskets. But it’s not ok to get addicted and attach to whacked out selfish assholes, then make poor choices that endanger me and other people.
Reliable sex with my spouse is a way to care for myself and care for him. Luckily, we super like each other. I will always be his girlfriend.