He was gentle. I didn't know it could be like that.
The first man I had sex with put his hand around my throat before he even put a hand under my shirt. I had expected the second to be worse: it was a hook up, after all, started late enough that we'd each had too much to drink and then time enough for about half the come down. But he was gentle. Sweet. Tender, even. I never felt anything rougher than his nails down my back, and that was too soft to leave marks. He kept saying how happy he was to be there with me, how hot I was. He told me that I could relax, that he'd go slow, that I could be as loud as I wanted. I felt safe. I felt desired. We laughed and smiled and kissed the whole way through. He called himself greedy when he asked me to sleep there that night. He joked about the things you do for love when he walked me home the next morning.
I can't have him. I barely even have a reason to see him again. We'll be in different cities within a month. But I'm laying here in a bed he's never been in and driving myself crazy with the memory. Is sex supposed to be like that? What else have I been missing?