My partner falls asleep so fast after we have sex. One minute you're moving, the next you're dead weight beside me. And I'm just... awake. Staring at the ceiling. It's not that I don't love you. I do. I love the way you hold me, the way you kiss my forehead before you roll over and conk out. But when we have sex, it's for you, and it's over before I've even had a chance to get there.
That's when I roll onto my side, away from you, and my hand slides under the waistband of my pajama bottoms. It's not a romantic or dramatic moment. It's just... necessary. It's quiet and methodical. I know exactly what to do, exactly how much pressure, exactly where to touch. It's almost clinical, the way I can get myself there in under a minute when it takes you twenty minutes of trying and failing to even get me close.
When I'm finished, I wipe my hand on the sheet, roll back over, and finally fall sleep. I love you, but I hate that this is what it takes. I hate that every single night, I have to finish the job you can't.
That's when I roll onto my side, away from you, and my hand slides under the waistband of my pajama bottoms. It's not a romantic or dramatic moment. It's just... necessary. It's quiet and methodical. I know exactly what to do, exactly how much pressure, exactly where to touch. It's almost clinical, the way I can get myself there in under a minute when it takes you twenty minutes of trying and failing to even get me close.
When I'm finished, I wipe my hand on the sheet, roll back over, and finally fall sleep. I love you, but I hate that this is what it takes. I hate that every single night, I have to finish the job you can't.
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Swipey
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