Mosaic

Old memories of an old mattress, the stench of old cigarette smoke hanging in the air.

I know. Objectively, that sounds gross. But it sets the scene for some of my favorite memories.

I remember little of specific nights. But I remember bits and pieces, like bits of glass glued together haphazardly, creating the mosaic of who we were and are. In such a way that it looks like there is no pattern, no grand design until you step back and your breath is taken away because it's so beautiful.

Some of the individual shards are sharp at the edges, and they'll cut you if you rub at them, the bad memories, the painful ones, but they're just as important as the soft and the smooth. You need them to see the whole picture.

I remember the first night I met you. We listened to Veruca Salt and I talked about heartbreak and you asked if you could "smooch" me. I couldn't decide at the time if I liked that you used that word or not.

Of course we fucked that night too. You told me my pussy was "picturesque"-a compliment I'll always remember for sure. I can't remember if you came inside me that night but I know that you did many, many nights after. I miss getting filled up with your cum. I miss the slick and slippery feeling of knowing I pleased you.

We fucked a lot after that. Hands down, the best orgasms of my life were with you. I remember how you'd fuck me so hard you'd get yourself all out of breath-the fact that you smoked didn't help with that. I'd feel a little bit guilty as you would breathe hard and deep (as hard and deep as you'd fucked me, in fact) and I'd scratch your back and tell you thank you for making me cum.

"You don't have to thank me," you'd always say. But I wanted to anyway so I always did.

Always. That's an interesting word. I wish I could say you were always there for me but the truth is that there were a lot of times that you really let me down. And always, I forgave you. I had to. Because how can I stay mad at the one person that I know for a fact would never hurt me on purpose?

For someone so tender and gentle by nature, I think you got pretty good at hurting me. I remember being naked on my back on that bare mattress and begging you to hit me. Begging you to tell me I was a stupid slut. Hurt me enough that I could get off.

You'd ask me if I liked taking your cock, if I liked being a good slut for you and getting fucked. I'd say "yes, I love it, I love your cock". You'd spit on me and I remember feeling it grow cold on my chest and the tiny little bit of disgust and shame that would come with it once I had cum on your cock and come back to my senses. But I never told you not to do it because I loved that you did it without my having to ask. That you wanted to humiliate me that way.

For a little while we fell out of contact. I had a jealous boyfriend at the time. Now that I haven't seen you in person in over a year, I regret staying with him as long as I did and losing out on precious time I could've been spending with you. I didn't know how much I would end up missing you.

When I broke up with that boyfriend, I saw you the very same night. You talked me through it and I remember sitting there in the 24 hour restaurant we were in and talking a little bit softer, making eye contact a little bit longer, leaning forward a little bit closer, hoping that you would suggest we go back to your place. After an eternity we did.

I couldn't fathom how I'd ever lived without your dick inside me. I remember crying out as you slammed in and out of my pussy and thinking "God, how I've fucking missed this". I think I told you that, too: "God, how I fucking missed your cock."

Shortly after that breakup I fucked someone else. He left a big bruise on my inner thigh, and you saw it the following night when I was there to fuck you again. "Did you fuck someone else?" you asked me.

"Yes," I answered in a moan, for through your questioning you had not stopped slamming your cock into me.

"Did he cum inside you?" you asked from behind me.

"Oh, yes he did." I bit my lip-I always tried not to be too loud but I often failed.

"Were you a little slut for him?"

I was surprised; I'd never heard you talk quite like this before but I fucking loved it.

"Yes I was!"

"Do you like being a slut for two different guys in a row like this?" you asked me, and I like to imagine that was the moment that my pussy started dripping so much that it stained your roommate's futon.

I don't blame your roommate for hating me. You told me "he doesn't really hate YOU, because he's never met you; he just hates it when you come over because we fuck so loud". That didn't mean I felt any less bad about it.

I tried to be quiet, I swear. But when someone is shoving their hard cock in my mouth after they've just cum inside my pussy not too long ago, and I can taste his cum and my cum together on my tongue as the head of the cock slides towards the back of my throat, I tend to get a little excited.

For all the filthy stuff we may or may not have done, I never called you "sir". I never called you "master" or "daddy", which is odd, as most of my other encounters have resulted in one of those titles. Title or no, you definitely own me a lot more thoroughly than anyone I've ever called "master". You've explored every bit of me, every piece of who I am, every secret crevice of my body. You could have all of me if you wanted to.

But I don't blame you for not wanting that. The stars never aligned for us. After you moved away and I got to see you less frequently our fucking turned more into lovemaking and our lovemaking was more desperate. It was wanton and wanting and it made the air thick not only with sex but with emotion. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I suppose, and the dick grow harder, and I sure was fond of you.

I remember the first night you told me you loved me. I told you that I wished we could fall in love, that it would be easy, that it would be right. You said you felt the same way. You said you loved me, and then you grabbed my hair and you kissed me, hard.

You kissed me in a way I'd never been kissed before, not by you and not by anyone. It was fast and desperate and tender and almost angry. You kissed me like you were angry that our time together would be over before either of us were ready. You kissed me like you were angry that my pussy wasn't already wrapped around your cock, milking it as it had so many times before, and yet like new each time.

As I lay on my back and ran my fingers through your thick and curly hair you gasped out that you loved me. I wondered if that was just your dick talking. I made sure after we both came that it wasn't, and I told you I loved you too.

But it wasn't a storybook romance. Our mosaic does not paint the picture of happily ever after, nor are we two lovers star-crossed. It shows two people whose love could not be sustained by the universe, whose circumstances were incompatible with reality. Sometimes, I wish it could have been different.

When you look at our mosaic, what do you see? Which pieces stand out to you? Which of your memories hold the greatest place within the mold? I'd love to know. I'd love to hear if you remember the way I do. If you miss the way we were like I do.

I won't lie, I don't just miss your strong arms and your soft hair and your contagious laugh. I miss your hands wrapped around my wrists, I miss your lips on my nipples, I miss your fingers inside of me, I miss your cock in my mouth. I miss making you cum, I miss getting dressed only to have you undress me again for round two. I miss sitting in your passenger seat, heading home with my panties all a puddle, exhausted out of my mind but not wanting our time together to end. I miss making you say you loved me and I miss making you say I was a dumb slut. I miss you.

Sometimes I wish I could smash the whole thing to pieces and rebuild it from scratch. Turn it into the portrait of happily ever after, after all. But I can't. The pieces have been cemented in place and that's not something I can change. The best I can do is examine each piece, dive into what it contains, relive the memory inside.

Show me the pieces you hold dear. Cut me with the sharp edges, soothe me with the smooth. Show me how each bit, how each moment of each night of each year fits into the big picture.

All I ever wanted was the big picture. All I ever wanted was all of you.

But I'll still be happy with picking up the pieces.