BB is an adventurous lover. But he’s not tender or overtly affectionate. I get a hint of his inner struggle to be loving with me but not to get too carried away. He wants to be cautious – but of course he slips, unconsciously.  The way he grabs my hand; strong enough to pin me right where he wants me but gently enough for me to see that he cares. He always goes for my right hand. He clasps it  protectively, and then kisses me hungrily.  Like a famished carnivore, he devours me. It’s almost like a ritual to him. And then when he’s close to the climax he puts a finger in my mouth and I drink him in. I feel his strength draining out of him. He relishes this moment.

But I miss tender  fucking. The kind of fucking where there is so much unbridled passion, of the ‘so good I want to die’ variety. The kind of fucking where it doesn’t matter if it’s about love or not but a man is giving himself to me, only for that moment. The kind of fucking where no one is rushed. Where we are just allowing ourselves to get lost and meshed in each other without a care in the world about whether we’ll still be together after we orgasm or not.

Once, after a beautiful orgasmic groan – something that caught me by surprise because he’s the silent type – he immediately turned and fell into a foetal position beside me, hands between his thighs, whimpering softly. I looked at him and at that moment, I really did not know what to do, so I stroked his hair. I was fascinated; what is it about sex that  reduces a grown man to this?