I am a drug virgin. I have never tried anything. Seriously. NOTHING.
I have never even tried pot.
Sex is my drug. It always has been.
And he was my heroin.
It was almost a year to the day since we’d seen each other. He was in a nearby state, living his life and I was living mine, in a committed relationship, with a man I later married…and divorced. Both of us were trying to stay on our prescribed paths. Both of trying to do what is right.
But doing wrong is far more fun, isn’t it?
He opened the hotel door and the heat pulsating from his form was palpable. He stood there in his t-shirt and underwear taunting me with his presence. He ushered me into the room and we just looked at each other.
Time and space were irrelevant. Intensity. Attraction. That’s all that was present in our realm.
My clothes came off in a matter of nanoseconds. As badly as I wanted him…as much as I wanted to feel him fill my dripping wet cunt…as much as I wanted him and as much as he wanted me, we just continued to stare into each other’s souls. We kissed. We felt of our bodies. I love the feel of his smooth skin. I love the smell of his neck. I love the bulge of his large and ample cock protruding from his boxer briefs.
As he entered me, it was like the addict…feeling the needle prick her skin. Penetrating the vein. Giving sweet release into the “high” as passion mixed with the blood running through my veins.
We fucked like gods. It was divine.
He rolled me over to mount him. I held onto the headboard, grinding slowly as I consumed more of his drug. In a matter of minutes I had an orgasm as I gushed all over his cock. Before I knew it, I gushed again, soaking him and the bed below. And we continued to rock into our own rhythm. I found myself becoming intoxicated, almost drunk from passion. He has this innate sense of how to fuck me. When to turn me over. How to position my body for maximum ecstasy. And quite honestly, when he turns me on my side and puts my leg on his shoulder, that’s when the drug takes over. I could easily overdose on him.
When he exploded inside me, I could see that he was experiencing our drug. I could see that he could feel this heroin in his veins too. We were on a high like a couple of junkies.
By lunchtime, the sheets were soaked and we were a beautiful mess.
We found a dry spot on the bed and engaged in a deeply intellectual chat. It’s our thing. We fucked like addicts and talked like Einstein afterwards. It was our version of afterglow.
There was something this man gave me that I hadn’t experienced at that point in my life. There was a connection on a deeper level that I didn’t comprehend. It was on another plane. I yearned to have him inside my body. Inside my head.
But our time was limited.
Our relationship was sporadic.
Our chemistry was flammable.
Our passion was consuming and addictive.
And a few days afterwards, I found myself like the heroin addict coming down from her high. Realizing that my reality was without him, without this drug. Not accessible.
I couldn’t have it. I couldn’t have him.
And part of me wonders if the high I felt was worth the low that followed. And in retrospect it was. To have that level of connection with another life-force was worth the withdrawal that ensued.
Every autumn I think of him and hope he is well in his part of the universe.