He does this thing.
Two fingers, inside her, pointed toward the sky. That come-hither motion he read about in an article while waiting for his car to be serviced.
Slow at first, then he increases the speed until his fingers are a blur.
He feels her body respond. Breath hitched in her throat. She grips the sheets into a fist.
Works like a charm. Every damn time.
This is his go-to move. He’s proud of it. It’s consistently reliable. And she confirms it with the sounds she makes. The way she arches into his palm. That little gasp that inevitably escapes her lips confirms that he’s got her right where she needs to be.
Every damn time.
He smiles to himself. He’d pat himself on the back, if his hands weren’t otherwise occupied.
This is good sex.
Attentive. Generous. He takes his time. Attending to her needs. Knowing how to get her there.
Every damn time.
She hates it, and he’s clueless.
She dreads the moment his fingers curve and he rubs her raw. She tilts her pelvis in an attempt to brace herself against the onslaught of sensation. He’s so sure about getting her off, but all she feels is pressure and impatience and so much anxiety to sell this. Again.
So she does.
The arch. The gasp. The grip on the sheets. She’s done it so many times it’s muscle memory now. She knows when to quicken her breath, when to tense, when to let out that little sound that makes him think he’s cracked the code.
It works. He believes her. Every damn time.
Later, he’ll drift off, feeling sated and full of himself, already thinking about the next time. She’ll slip out of bed, careful and quiet. Tiptoeing down the hall to the guest room. Slipping between the cool sheets, to give herself what she wanted earlier—a slow deliberate orgasm.
He thinks their sex life is great. She’s sneaking into the guest room.
Clearly, something is amiss.
Her silence keeps him deluded and her unsatisfied. And their story isn’t unique.
What is her silence costing, besides the obvious?
Intimacy. Connection. Honesty. And eventually, trust.
We might not call this deception, but it is.
Acting, even on stage, is well-done lying. But in bed? Oomph, that stings.
He thinks they’re connecting. She’s feeling anything but.
And she loves him. But...
Love without authenticity is a performance. And performance leaves zero room for people to know you.
But they think they do. And that’s the real shame, right?
This episode breaks down the expense of performing desire.
Listen here (up there 👆🏾) or on your favorite platform.
