It was painfully obvious the Universe was against it:
Mr.Big asked me to join him on a business trip in the one week I didn’t have a passport. I had turned in the old one the week before. They stamped holes in it so it wasn’t valid anymore. And in exchange they took my application for a new one.
Along with the new passport photo.
I had thought of Mr.Big when I had that photo taken. Because I thought it would give me a happy, content look. And that it would somehow miraculously cure my asymmetrical eyes, a feature that had gotten stronger since the last passport photo five years prior.
I was aware that getting an acceptable portrait would get more difficult with age. And I also realized, when the photographer handed me the horrific passport photo where everything that could go wrong, had gone wrong, that I had chosen the wrong photographer.
This was the same shop that had fucked it up ten years ago.
And not the one that had given me the blushing portrait five years ago.
The blushing one that now had holes in it…
“You can pick up the passport next week,” the employee told me. “It will be valid for ten years.”
By the time I need the next one the good photographer will have retired. And who knows in what kind of detrimental state my own life will be.
Or my relationship with Mr.Big.
On the moment I had to put my autograph on the papers, I fantasized I was signing our wedding papers. Even though I don’t believe in marriage. Nor do I wish for Mr.Big’s current marriage to end.
And apparently, neither did the Universe.
Because Mr.Big asked me to join him for a secret getaway, for the first time in years, exactly in the week I had no other choice but to refuse.
When he took his return flight he started messaging me if I would be interested in sharing breakfast.
He had used that trick once before.
The first hours after landing, and before his first business appointments, were probably a grey area. A time window for which he would not be held accountable, and it wouldn’t make sense to go home. He would take a shower and change suits at his condo.
When he opened the door he was freshly shaven and wearing jeans.
When we lay in bed later – and I’ll tell you in a minute in which advanced state of being horny he had brought me before I was even invited into the bedroom – I recalled that moment, when he had opened the door.
I said that I never went to his house with the idea of having sex, but that he was always so courteous and easy going. He really made an effort to play his cards right.
There are many men with whom you can have great sex if you’re in love. You’re more forgiving in the beginning.
But after a while, it starts to count.
“You score ten out of ten. I’m so spoiled. You really know how to get me to want it.”
Mr.Big laughed. “And then every time you think: What the hell just happened?”
In all those years I was single, I had to put up with so much.
And now I had Big scoring ten out of ten!
We have had dates when we didn’t have sex, but that was usually because I was in my period, or because I had not seen him in a long time and I wasn’t settling for a quickie.
But even on those dates, Mr.Big knew how to connect with me in a way that we both felt happy and appreciated. It was never a tug of war kind of standoff, with me “refusing” to have sex.
Big was a master at working whatever boundaries there were, with regard to time, lack of privacy, or my physical needs. He didn’t hold any preconceived ideas about what a good date was supposed to look like, except that he seemed determined to always make sure I had a good time.
So my ten out of ten was more figuratively speaking:
He always honored what we had, and if I was in the mood for sex he picked up on that and did something to arouse me.
After breakfast we were on the couch, snogging a bit, and although we were still fully dressed things were heating up quickly. There is something about him returning from a business trip, that makes him extra attractive.
Maybe it’s just the thought that he’s had sex, or kissed other women.
He knows that thought arouses me and he’s always happy to play along. I confessed that I masturbated to him. To us. Playing that he had paid me to do anything he wanted with me.
And that he took advantage of that.
“It makes me come so hard,” I shivered, thinking back to my masturbation sessions, in which an imaginary Big, and only Big, ever accompanied me.
I was not just faithful to him in real life. Even in my imagination, there was no one I was more fond of.
“Want to play that now?” he asked, and showered my cheek with kisses so that my mouth could answer him.
“Yes…. can we go to the bedroom? I always imagine this takes place in your bedroom.”
“You know the rules for the bedroom,” he said, as he looked at me with a sparkle in his eyes that was out of character for someone who was about to play-abuse me.
“I do,” I said.
I had to be fully naked.
He slowly untangled our bodies and headed towards the bedroom.
“Just knock when you’re ready.”
I undressed myself, and stacked my clothes next to the bedroom door. My shoes, my socks, my jeans, my string. My sweater, my top, my bra.
I knocked the door. He opened. I gasped.
“I had no idea you’d be naked!” I said. And I loved the shock of surprise. And that it made clear I didn’t have a say. He made the rules.
He had paid for it.
I whispered a lot during sex. Whenever I wanted to tell him how in awe I was over how horny I was. In less than an hour together, I was role playing and loving every minute and every inappropriate intrusion and abuse of my body.
We spent even more time cuddling and talking after.
When I told him how special he was, and how gifted when it came to sex. And warming me up to it.
He brushed it off: “Well I wouldn’t know. I only know myself.”
“Well take it from me,” I said. “You’re something special. Do you have something like that with me too? That I always do? When other women not so much?”
He seemed to immediately know the answer:
“You’re so grateful.”
Yes. I am.
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living
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