Posts Tagged ‘g-spot’

lovers

Pure Pleasure

In the dark, she reached for his hair, soft and short in her fingers. His face was hidden, lit from the street by dimly illuminated curtains, his shoulders loomed broadly over her, supported by lean arms that gripped the sheets beneath her. Sometimes he moved to her head, or her back, or her hips, to pull her fiercely against him.

She didn’t need to see his face. She knew that he gazed intently at her, as he moved his hips into her, then out and back again. She moaned and threw her pillow in one swooping motion, from behind her head, onto the floor.

He was an enthusiastic lover, and in fact, the term lover was more appropriate than she ever could have dreamed. He loved. He loved everything about her, and this was something that she was coming to realize, slowly. Sloooowly. Concealed within the dark room, within her enveloping bed, her thoughts occasionally strayed from his body and what he was doing to her, or with her, to a wonderment, an amazement. ‘So this is what making love is’, she thought. Quite different from having sex, even great sex.

He was enthusiastic, yes, and came equipped with the endurance of an athlete trained to paddle for many miles, to race bikes, to swim. He had mind-over-body stamina, older, more experienced, not the wam-bam of youth followed by the deepest of sleeps.

Not this man.

And they laughed. She laughed as hard as she’d ever laughed. As hard as the top five memorable laughs of her life.

One sunny afternoon, they’d stretched out in a room full of books, on a bed next to windows that looked out over sky and trees. Squirrels, butterflies and wind, the sun danced in warm air.

She suggested a game. She wasn’t sure, she said, that she knew where her g-spot was, if she had one in fact. They looked online for information as to where this mysterious spot might be, and he laughed when they found the best information on Men’s Health, in an article titled, “How to Find your Girl’s G-spot.” He noted the use of the term “girl.”

Two inches in and on the top side closer to the belly button, palm up, curious fingers curled, exploring. That’s the spot, the article said, that sometimes makes a woman feel like peeing. Or wait, maybe not there. Maybe farther in, just about where that rough patch is. He patiently, she thoughtfully. Until she was so filled with mirth at the humor of it all that laughter exploded in great gales. Swells of laughter that wouldn’t stop, and he with her, laughing.

Perhaps a man’s partner might not have one at all. It wasn’t something that had been defined and documented. It was too ethereal. Perhaps it was all something like an urban myth. A rumor that certainly demanded some serious (since he was a scientist) scientific and methodical investigation. A taking of notes.

Finally she admitted, breathless between laughter, that she’d known all along where it was. Well, at least she thought she knew where it was but wasn’t quite sure and maybe could use some more exploring. He, looking directly into her eyes, she gazing back, gasping, unabashed at the frank and honest pleasure that passed between them.

And with that, they watched the sun set gently behind trees until nothing was left of the day, nothing left but the night stretching before them.

‘Is this what it feels like to be in love?’ she asked herself. She rolled the word around on her tongue. She’d asked a friend, “How do you know when you’re in love?” The friend answered, “If you ask the question, then you probably are.”

She thought about how she’d felt when he’d returned from a five-day trip to the east coast, how something had changed when he walked into her kitchen. She’d always been more of a pragmatist, a little cynical, more than a little short on romance.

Now she wrapped her arms around this very sweet man, a man who missed her, who couldn’t wait to see her, had rushed over as soon as he could, had pressed he mouth to hers and held her like he never wanted to let go. With more than a little disbelief, she relented. Yes, this was a possibility.


About the author: Daphne Devina is an essayist and artist with an irrepressible curiosity about life, adventure, and especially men. Join her as she explores a new world of irresponsibility after many years of juggling career, kids and marriage. Can she finally “have it all?” Can she reawaken passion in a body long dormant?

  • This is the third and last installment in a series written for Madison Lake Pages. Read here Part 1 and Part 2.