What was she like? What do you mean? You don’t usually ask me questions like this. I don’t know where to start. What was she like? Well there’s this: She had a small kitchen, you know? It just had two chairs and a small table, and we’d sit there drinking tea—her father was English, you know, and this was something she had kind of inherited and then gently imposed on others. And our knees—sure, they’d be touching and I’d want it to be meaningful, like a prelude to something. And I think it might have been like that for her, but she still seemed so hesitant? Like she had never been with someone who had taken care of her so she didn’t know that she could let me, just like that, into her space. She was on edge even in the moments when we could have been slowly falling into each other. Does that make sense? I don’t know, maybe it was me who was on edge. But it became something of a challenge—how can I get her to let me take her like that? Take her off her guard?
But all the other stuff? Sure, there was plenty of other stuff. Like: her comforter was a big white fluffy thing, and she could get lost in it. Seriously, sometimes I just couldn’t find her. She’s small, right? But also I think she liked to tangle herself up in it, get enveloped in it. Or she liked that I would have to rummage through the folds until she suddenly appeared, a coy smile on her face. The sun would be so bright through the windows those mornings—she didn’t have blinds, I think. And her skin was alabaster with those hints of blue and rose from the veins underneath. Yeah, some mornings, after we’d had a go of it, the color would come to the surface, like she were painted in it, marked by it. And to see that against all that white…
And you know what else was small? I mean I’ve had a few drinks so I might as well say it. Yeah, her pussy was small. And it’s not like I’m some enormous guy or anything. I think my cock has a good size, but nothing crazy. There just was only so much that she could take of me. I loved to see her riding me in the morning in that blinding light, to see her grinding into me, going for her pleasure—but I would just keep slipping out. I wanted her so much to just stay there, as if on a throne, even if I wasn’t inside her, so that she would own her pleasure, or feel like I could give her permission to own it. I wanted to see that smile of triumph on her face. But every time I slipped out she would get embarrassed, curl up in the comforter, until I found her again and had my way with her.
There was that one time. There’s always one time. When you talk about old loves, lost loves, missed loves, you can always point to one moment where despite it all something fell into place. It was another one of those mornings. She had taken out an old photograph album and we leafed through it as she sat between my legs. She tensed for a moment and then almost let it go before asking me if I wanted to see some old photos an ex-boyfriend had taken of her. She flipped to the back of the album and there she was, younger, topless in the woods somewhere, as if unaware. It wasn’t a perfect shot, but it captured some of that youthful confidence. And then she almost started talking about how that guy turned out to be a real dick and the whole story when, I think, she felt my arms come tighter around her. You know that way you can hold someone so that they feel solid, grounded? I must have said something about how beautiful she was, or about the lighting, or who knows what I said. It didn’t really matter at that point. She just softened into me. I remember she kissed my arm and then leaned into that soft spot at the top of your chest, just below the shoulder. It didn’t take much to peel off whatever clothes she was wearing. And then it all melted together, you know? Sometimes I feel like I can still taste her from that morning. I remember how much she wanted it, how she seemed to know something new about our shared pleasure, and then how she lost herself in my hands.
So, yeah that’s a little bit about what she was like. Couldn’t hold her long enough though. Eventually she just pulled away and that was that.
Oh, you can hear it in my voice, yeah? Nah, not the one that gone away exactly. Something in between. But yeah, I’ll think of her now and again if you get enough wine in me or if a Saturday morning hits in the right way. A fragile ruin, that’s what she was. Not that I wanted to put her back together or anything too grand like that. I just wanted to sit with her there, in the middle of the ruin, in the warm morning light.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/uzl7dz/a_lost_love_a_monologue_mf