Diary: Good Girl

When I asked if you could describe it that evening, that feeling you were having, your response was rhythmically precise.  

“Starved,” you wrote. “Like my insides are roiling, needing to be sated. On the brink of madness, staring over the edge into nothingness, if I don’t get what I need. Desire.”

In the seconds that it took me to read your reply, my mood was instantly transformed. The intensity of your words broke through the facade of self-imposed fortitude around my sexual consciousness. You tend to do that. Echoes of your deep voice, ever-present in my mind, sounded bruised as I imagined you speaking the words at first, but then became a whisper coated with honey. Desire: it’s only one of the many things that our distance and our circumstances limit indulgence in. 

Later, when ‘good night’ texts had been sent and another day of frenetic existence came to an end, I found myself going back to your sentiments. Rereading. Re-feeling, safe in the knowledge that, after a certain time of night, you’re less likely to catch me live in the texting app. You’d therefore not be fully aware of the fact that I often revisit your words when I’m alone at night.

You’d been unusually poetic that entire day. Your siren song usually manifests itself more in the ways you can make me laugh in the midst of the mundane reality of middle-aged existence. But you seemed to be touched by Apollo, or perhaps pricked by Cupid, as your passion flowed like lava that evening.  

Intentionally, I reached down to pull my nightie up above my breasts before scrolling back to an earlier point in our conversation. The heavy weight of the comforter I sleep with felt pleasantly chilled for a few moments before it absorbed the heat of my skin. Then I found what I was searching for. It was mid-afternoon when you’d written it.           

“There really is nothing more in life so wonderful. The effect you can have on a person, how lives can be forever altered.”

The absence of moonlight normally makes me melancholy. But this time, I was grateful for the pitch blackness of my bedroom, broken only by the dimmest of light emanating from my phone screen. Somehow, it made it easier for me to admit that you do have a life-altering effect on me. For you, this man who doesn’t belong to me and who is so far away, I’d changed the freight train trajectory my turbulent biology had set me on before I’d met you. Now, I find myself entrenched in a pattern of endless, unfulfilled rapaciousness punctuated by brief encounters of sexual frenzy and accumulated intimacy. Years later, I still struggle to find my comfort with it. 

Lonely nights are the worst times to find logic in that which is, by its very nature, impractical. And so I looked, fervently, for more. I looked for your words to fill those voids you cannot otherwise fill with your presence beside me.

“I think we’d make wonderful music together,” you’d mused.

I brushed my free hand lightly over my tummy and rested it in the heat generated by the flesh of my breasts when splayed unencumbered and heavy against my chest.

“Tell me, “ I’d prompted. “What would our music sound like?”

I remembered that your reply took several minutes. So I paused reading in real time then crept my fingers up to one dark nipple, already peaked and eager. I encircled it with an increasing pressure that made my thighs part willingly. I sighed before reading on. 

“Soulful. Dark and melodious. Sexy. The culmination of our playlist we love so much.”    

Eyes closed, I allowed my mind to drift back to that evening months prior when, a little punchy from bourbon, beer, and key lime pie, that playlist, our playlist, served as the backdrop for your greedy demand that I turn over. Trembling with anticipatory delight, I’d felt your hands exploring me from behind before inserting my favorite silver plug into the naughtiest of places.  You’d followed up by plunging your own hot, rigid shaft inside me. I was so ready for you. The music receded then and all I could hear were my own moans released into the pillows and your throaty grunts of exertion as you emptied into me.

The memory of your release disintegrated all remnants of my resolve and so releasing my nipple, I went in search of my dampening valley. I found her ready and slick but willed myself to linger over the soft down of my mound.  I worked my fingernails through the dark tendrils leading down into my core. Bringing my whole hand up, I slapped down onto my pussy, hard, in quick succession until the reverberations drove me wanton with lust. I whimpered and searched for more of you.

Weeks before, you’d teased me when I’d been bratty, a reaction I think you know I reserve for those occasions when you won’t acquiesce to my demand for the words I want to hear.

“You silly girl,” you began before giving in. “Just know that you will be on your back. Spread and laid bare for me. Quivering. Your breath coming quick and shallow as you wait, the seconds stretching longer and longer as you wait for my cock to completely own all of your tight, waiting holes.” 

But there, in my bed, unattended and on fire, I didn’t have to wait. There, with only shadows to serve witness, I indulged past uneven folds tumescent from my arousal until I reached the tightness of my interior. My pussy gave way enthusiastically as first one, then two, of my fingers went in search of relief. I fucked myself then. As long and as deep as the waves of my passion would allow. And I was quiet — an uncharacteristic response, you know, necessitated by the ears not far from my bedroom door. But in my mind, in my active consciousness, I heard you urging me, telling me all of the ways I should defile myself for my pleasure and your own voyeuristic demands.

I was close, so close to releasing the stifled beast of my needs and I knew that if I touched my clitoris right then I would have the temporary satiety that playing alone engenders.

But I needed you with me. Right there with me before I allowed myself to fall over the edge. You’d never know, but this was as much for you as it was for me.

I’d asked you once to tell me what you meant by the full experience. I looked for your response so that I could conjure your presence as a way to comfort the unquenchable thirst you inspire inside me.       

“Mouths and tongues dancing across each other,” you explained. “Gliding along each other’s bodies. Hands pulling each other as close as can be, exploring every part, every curve. Eyes locked in intense passion and mutual understanding that we are together right now and not a goddam thing else matters.”

And so it was your sapphire eyes that I saw in the dark. Bright and alive with ardor as I became suddenly aware that the hottest of fires burn blue. Your hands were the ones I felt grinding into my nub. Harder. Faster. Wet with the innermost parts of my femininity. When I finally crested, I bit my lip to keep from crying out your name. Sinking into the hug offered by my mattress, wave after wave of self-indulgence flowed through me as I willed the moon’s still night to keep my secrets.  

Moments later, my phone screen had long gone dark as I lay motionless in a puddle of my own making. Instead of reaching for it, my impulse was to bring my slippery fingers up to my mouth. Tasting myself, I grinned as I imagined what you might say if you could see me then. But I didn’t need to search for the words. I already knew you’d flash that crooked grin and tell me what I needed to hear.

“Good girl.”

Written & Read by Carolyna Luna

Post Image Credit: Carolyna Luna