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by Greta Christina
To: Marla (firstname.lastname@example.org)
From: Chris (email@example.com)
Subject: I miss you
I miss you. The flight went smoothly and my family is relatively sane, except Fran who's having fits about Mom's birthday being perfect. I guess I didn't help matters by calling her Franny-Fat-Fanny, which after thirty-odd years still makes her yell at me. I'm sorry you couldn't be here to see it.
This is what I'm thinking about you today. I'm remembering something I read once, about how 95% of sex scenes in movies show the couple having sex for the first time. I don't know if they meant that number literally or were making it up to make a point. But I realized that I don't get that. I know all these guys (women too, probably) who get bored doing it with the same person, who need a fresh body every few months or years to keep their attention. But I don't get it. I've never gotten it. It seems so ridiculously obvious to me that sex gets better with time, not worse. It's like playing the piano. You need to practice, for years. You can't play the piano for a few months and then quit and switch to the tuba, and then quit that and play the saxophone for a while. Not if you're going to be really good at it.
When I'm going down on you, for example. (What a nice example.) There's a spot, I don't know how to describe where it is, it's on the right side of your nub, kind of high up at the top. When I'm licking you, if you're tensing up and I can tell you're ready to come but don't want to yet, if I lick that spot you kind of relax. and go to this other place, this place that's blissful and peaceful and sort of like an orgasm but not one. All that shark-like forward motion stops, for both of us, and it's like sitting still for a moment in the woods. Until I move, over to one of your serious hot spots, just a millimeter down is all it takes, and you start squirming again.
And those hot spots, for another example. When we were first going out, I'd stumble on one and you'd jump out of your skin, and I'd think, Aha! Money in the bank. And I'd zero in on it and make you crazy for about ten seconds, and then a second later you'd get kind of numb and irritable, and we'd be back to square one. Now I know. It is like money in the bank, but I can't spend it all right away or it'll be gone. I know I need to tease it, court it, circle around it, pass my tongue over it for just a quarter of a second and then move away. I know I need to get you worked up, missing it, wanting it, before I come back to it again, for half a second this time, just a couple of hard flicks with the tip of my tongue before I slip off again. I know I can't zero in on it until you're making your final run. And I know that once I do start zeroing in, once you've got your momentum going, I absolutely can't stop.
I didn't know any of this seven years ago. I didn't know a lot of it four years ago. And if I'd dropped you after six months for someone with different colored hair or a different bra size, I'd never have found out. It's an awful thought. I can't stand thinking about it.
It's not like I know things, so now I can go down on you the right way, the same way, every time. It's like, I know things, so I can mix them up, play with them, shuffle the deck in a different way. I can creep up on a hot spot slow and steady like a glacier, or I can flick at it and flick away and then flick back again, or I can dance around it all night and drive you crazy, make you wonder if I'm ever going to get there. I can run my fingers up and down your lips, or use my fingers to spread you apart and open you up so your clit can't get away, or put one inside you for that sensory overload thing that makes you so twitchy. I can press your thighs apart and hold them there, firmly and just a little roughly, like a manly-but-sensitive hero in a romance novel; or I can stroke them on the inside with the tips of my fingers, a light brushing, almost subliminal, adding a bit of background and complexity to the picture I'm drawing on your pussy with my tongue.
It's always new. Always a different mix. The time we did it at Dinosaur National Park, giggling and trying to stay quiet and bumping into the tent poles. That time we called in sick and spent the day in bed together, ordering take-out and watching videos and having sex all day. The night before my father's funeral. Last night before you drove me to the airport. Every time is different.
And that's just going down on you.
Anyway, it's a moving target. You change, I change. Our bodies, our thoughts, our desires. The minute I think I know you, you come up with some dirty new idea, or remember some dirty old idea that's been in the back of your mind for years and now can't wait another second. And I'm dying of curiosity. I can't wait to find out whatever new thing it is I'm going to learn seven years from now, or three months from now, or a week from now when I get home.
All of which is a long-winded way to say that I love you, and I miss you, and I wish you were here to try all this long-winded theory with in person. I'll write again in a day or two. I'll see you in a week. Keep the hot spots burning.
Copyright 2003 Greta Christina. Originally published in Five Minute Erotica: 35 Passionate Tales of Sex and Seduction, edited by Carol Queen, Running Press.