Last night, lying on my shoulders, you whispered— “Sorry, I don’t last 'long enough' with you. It wasn’t the same with those I have been with before, where I wasn’t in love and had a thought or two to spare on tasks and things beyond the person immediate. On the impending investment deal. Would it fail, Or sail through? Or the previous woman whom I’d taught percussion while thrusting from behind.” (Read full story in the caption) Lasting Longer #last #yqbaba Last night, lying on my shoulders, you whispered— “Sorry, I don’t last 'long enough' with you. It wasn’t the same with those I have been with before, where I wasn’t in love and had a thought or two to spare on tasks and things beyond the person immediate. On the impending investment deal. Would it fail, Or sail through? Or the previous partner whom I’d taught percussion while thrusting from behind. It was easy to be lost in thinking, in not being present, because to me, it wasn’t the wild passionate sex but another of those tasks and things, devoid of love and longing. I’d last hours with them, giving beyond measure, beyond their imaginations. They’d call me a Greek God, giggling, chirping, thanking, admiring, felicitating my stamina and longevity with their hands and the mouth.” “With you, however, I last less than eleven minutes, where you are part-aroused, part-asleep. Before you could explode into a fountain of magma, shaking, breaking, without faking, before the bed could turn into a shipwreck … I come in a gush & stall your machine, leaving you unfulfilled every time, suspended reality.”
