You pin her on the bed and look her in the eyes.  

There’s nothing invasive or forceful about it – she wants to be controlled. She closes her eyes and desperately tries to get lost, escape the moment. Her thoughts are distracting her to the point where she’s not enjoying it, but like London rain, she’s learned to live with it. You’re anything but distracted. You’re aware of the softness of her thighs and the smell of her neck. You kiss her ankles and run your fingers from the small of her back around her belly and up her thorax. You want to run sequences on her body that her skin does not recognize. There’s something primal, primitive almost animalistic about the way you want her. If this were a book this would be the point where descriptions of burning loins and untamable fires would appear. 

Her breathing, facial expression and body resemble someone in distress. It seems like she’s not used to deriving pleasure from this kind of experience. Every time you place your hand between her legs she instinctively brings them together and her whole body tenses. She keeps reaching for the lower part of your body, too eagerly, as if it’s her duty, her obligation. As if she’s trying to reassure you, you’ll be getting your part of the deal.

With all the twisting and turning you’ve lost your sense of direction. Every time she reaches a new level of pleasure, she tries to break the action. If you mute the scene and look from afar, the whole thing looks like a wrestling match where every time you’re about to make her tap, she finds a way out.  

She told you you’re good at this. The best she ever had.  

There’s no such a thing as being good in bed. Naked bodies can’t be trained. They react. But you haven’t tried to explain it to her. You haven’t told her that you’ve been called the worst someone’s ever had. You haven’t told her about the nights you entered bedrooms as an insecure man seeking validation and left a man with validated insecurities. You want her to believe you’re experienced, it sounds much better than damaged. You want her to believe you know what you’re doing, it sounds much better than finding yourself on her body.  

Her body tells you stories of all the men that took but never gave, of men that made her think of this as “fuck” and “sex” and other words stripped of emotion. Stories that her lips would never dare utter.  

And you listen. You kiss those lips and you listen.