We just had the best sex ever. It was slow, it was raw, it was full of emotion. It was a heavenly connection between us and between my soul and my body.
And after I’d had an earth shattering orgasm he whisks me under him and declares, that we could just as well stop, because it hasn’t felt that good to me anyway.
It hit me hard and unexpected.
I’ve been so mad at him for not making me pregnant that I haven’t been able to enjoy sex. I’ve just kept on trying, because, well. Because sex is the glue that makes people happy, err stay together. Eventually the mind usually catches with the body. But mine hadn’t. I even said I didn’t enjoy it that much, but in a nice way. In a way that suggests I was still enjoying myself. In a way he could keep his memory of those wonderful sex experiences, and I could sort out mine.
He decided to just dump my experience, because his wasn’t as good as he’d like. Because his experience is always more important. (I know it’s not true, I’m just really, really hurt right now.) He had to make me aware of his martyrdom. He had to throw it in my face and change the whole situation for me.
Oh. So, when I was…? You were watching from far away? And when I…? You just complied.
So actually. It was all in my head. The best sex ever.