I cannot think of a conversation between us that does not involve sex. 

Nothing ever comes up that doesn’t at some point lead us there, to that moment where you enter me and I sigh, fully content to be so close to you again.

Everything about you is lust and passion and intensity and I am never my best self when I’m with you.

For you, I do anything in the name of pleasure. Even the things I said I wouldn’t. Even the things other men have shyly asked for– embarrassed by their own perversion– that I’d denied because good girls cannot like those things.

But you’re not shy. You know what you like and you know what you want and you don’t ask for these things, you suggest them, you sell the idea of them to me in the most provocative of ways where I end up begging and pleading for you to do it all to me.

And I cannot understand how we got to this point. I don’t know how I became this version of myself so consumed by you I’ve forgotten where the line between pain and pleasure, shame and confidence, love and lust, lies.

It’s a line that just gets blurrier every time I offer myself to you, to use however you’d like.