Sexual Frustration

I closed the laptop and suddenly felt angry. This is the reason I hate long distance relationships. You finally get to the core of what you want to talk about and boom -- someone has to go. Or you sit there staring at each other over the computer not giving in to whatever heated topic has somehow sprung up. And the truth is, I wasn't angry with him. I was mad because I wasn't able to be sitting naked in bed with him having the same conversation. The "Is this love?" conversation would have gone over much differently post orgasm, with me spoon-feeding him ice cream while I straddled his midsection and pondered our relationship.

Instead, the discussion occurred on IM, which is a lousy way to communicate. I should have known better than to bring it up. I hated the way he dropped his eyes to avert the question. Because instantly, I knew the answer was no.

The problem is that I feel loved. And if he's avoiding, does that mean I'm making it up in my head? Or is it the love that dare not be named or the world as we know it will be sucked into a black hole and disappear forever?

I closed my eyes and tried to cool down. But I didn't want to. I was angry. And at the moment, I was very sexually frustrated.

Another limitation to the long-distance relationship -- no one's penis is long enough to transcend the distance, and at some point, even though I'm a girl who loves her toys, you just want your partner. And can you blame a girl for that?

I curled up in a naked ball around a pillow thinking of my lover. As a woman, I long for the mental connection to get my body in gear. And once the two are revved up, I'm pretty much ready to try anything, even if it's totally outside my normal comfort range. If I adore you, my conscious appears to have very few boundaries.

But tonight, I just wanted sex. I wanted him to turn me onto my belly, position himself behind me and fuck me. I wanted to take the annoyance and the anger and the frustration and just physically work through it. I wanted to hear his panting and feel his hands grip my hips while he set our rhythm. Then I wanted him to wet his finger and slide it into my ass making me gasp in pleasure as my muscles tensed around his penis in response to the unexpected, but welcome, stimulation.

"I'm coming," I'd announce moments later, as if it's any surprise to him. My ejaculate is spraying all over the bed. "I'm coming all over your dick."

It's the use of the word "dick," a term which rarely passes my lips, that appears to propel him into orgasm. He shouts a few times in monosyllables and slams himself further into me. His whole body shudders as I lower myself from my hands and knees onto my belly and pull him over onto my back. His soft penis slides out and fluid runs out between my thighs.

We say nothing as our breathing slows. I can't stand the silence any more. My brain is working overtime asking all kinds of harmful "what if" questions and over analyzing everything. I turn over under him. He hesitates when he sees how frustrated my facial expression is and then kisses me tenderly. "That was lovely don't spoil it with unpleasant neuroses."

I find his words patronizing, and I'm dying to be a smart ass and respond, "What's the difference between loving me and sex with me being lovely?"

Instead, I hold my tongue. It's a hard choice to make. I want to poke our soft spot and expose the bruise. I'm hurt. He's hurt me. And I want to express how, in that moment, his biggest fan feels like she's being played.

But that's the problem with an honest relationship. It does hurt. The cognitive part of my brain knows he's spoken his peace already, and I need to respect and accept his answer. It's not his fault that he doesn't segment his feelings up as neatly as I do or that he doesn't feel the same way about me as I feel about him.

I don't want to hear the words if he doesn't feel them. And, truthfully, I haven't said them either. But I admitted that I felt loved, he just didn't confirm my feelings.

I opened my eyes and stare into the darkness of my bedroom where I was alone, still sexually frustrated. My fragile ego was apparently hurt more by my overactive sexual imagination than it was helped.

I sighed and found the only comfort I could by wetting my fingers and running them down my flat abdomen to my clit as I replayed the fantasy in my head. As my body responded, I asked out loud, "How many orgasms does it take to put an end to this madness?"

It's three days later, and I still don't have an answer to that question. But I do have a lot of towels that need to be laundered. Any takers?