Our story is eight years of lust and self-loathing. Eight years of clichés that neither of us seem able to let go of. Relationships have come and gone between the two of us and other people, but that stupid little spark between US never seems to fade.
When I met you, you seemed harmless. I get hung up on how harmless you seemed. I wasn’t even interested, it makes me laugh. You asked for my number and I gave it to you with no intention of anything but friendship. Cliché number one.
I’ve been paying for that ever since.
We flirted at a party one night, and I felt the thing between us stir. You kissed me goodbye and cliché number two struck me dumb with our chemistry. The kind that made me wet from one sultry kiss. I fucking wobbled full of drunken lust to my friend’s car with my head full of thoughts of you.
Not long after that, we had sex for the first time. We were on your couch watching a movie. I couldn’t concentrate for shit, you were trailing your fingers lightly up and down my back. I was in your lap before I even realized what the fuck I was doing. You took your shirt off and I laughed at myself for ever thinking you were too tall and lanky.
Your body was lean and strong and merciless. You knew how to use everything you had to make me forget everything but your fucking name. I moaned it over and over like a beggar anytime you weren’t unraveling me with those deep, luscious kisses. I had no idea what good sex was before you. I didn’t understand true chemistry. I didn’t know what it was like to be fucked up against the wall, ragged and desperate for more.
God, we were a mess. We didn’t want to be together. Sometimes I think we might have hated each other, although maybe it was just apathy on your end. I’ll never know, because we’re still doing whatever this is. Eight years and how many partners later, we still gravitate to each other and the high we feel together. I still wonder why I ever let you kiss me. Why I didn’t keep you at arm’s length under the label of “harmless lanky nice guy.” You seemed so nice when I met you, like the cliché best guy friend every twenty-something girl would want.
Instead, you’re the cliché that makes me want to kick myself. The one I keep wandering back to. The one who woke up something in me I never knew could be real. I come in my dreams when you’re in them, dreams that always seem like reality more than they should. Maybe because they’re fueled by memory and the ongoing fantasy we feed each other, but what the fuck is that?
Harmless? Hilarious. You have fucked me in ways I couldn’t imagine, and you’re still not done.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/rq32r5/harmless_clichés_mf_adult_hetero