Re-inviting the sensual into my life

Before Richard, my life was very cerebral and above-the-neck. Not just in my work; also in the things I did in my off-hours and in my relationships with men. The only thing that felt full and complete in my life – body and mind and soul – was my relationship with my children.

I knew what my life was missing. I was raised in a tropical paradise by lazy, live in the moment, sensual parents. I grew up mostly naked and brown and happy. I spent my non-school time with a big group of family and extended family and friends, beaching and drinking and not doing much of anything at all.

Somehow when I went off to college I lost touch with that side of myself. It was as if, to grow my mind, I had to shut off my body. In graduate school, I even stopped reading poetry. Poetry had always been important to me, both reading it and writing it, but I was suddenly unable to appreciate it anymore – it felt silly and affected to me. Only recently have I begun to enjoy it again, and I’ve discoverd Rumi and Pablo Neruda, among others.

No complaints about my brain. It’s made a lot of money for me, created a nice life for me and my kids. I’m proud of it. But I’m more than a big brain, and the rest of me had been neglected for a long time.

Last year, I went looking for what was missing. It was a little more complicated than just re-inviting the sensual into my life. For one thing, I’d never known the grown-up side of sensual. For another, I was coming to terms with the reality that I was a sexually submissive woman. How did those things fit together? How could I find what I wanted and needed, when I wasn’t even sure what it was?

What I found was Richard. Richard is smart and analytical and intellectual and emotionally intelligent. He keeps pace with what he calls my “monkey brain”, he can match me in debate, he can parry when I tease or challenge, he can talk me through emotional minefields and sensitive social scenarios.

But he’s so much more than that.

He’s my man. He’s my mate. He’s my master.

Sometimes I wake at night to feel an arm snaking over my hip. It wraps around my belly and pulls me hard against him. I feel his chest on my back, thigh against thigh. I feel him nuzzle my neck, I hear him growl “mine” quietly. I know he means it. This isn’t a sexy game. I am his.

When I come back from the office in the early afternoon, we slip on our swimsuits and head for the pool. We slide into the water, leaving our arms propped on the deck, and bake in the sun like lizards. We talk desultorily – what he did, what I did, what the real estate market is doing, politics, philosophy, what photoshoot we’d like to do next, how great our last fuck was. I’ll turn my head, eyes half open, and see that Richard has disappeared underwater. He’ll surface with a big grin on his face – either to tell me about some silly pool game he played as a kid, or that he was looking at my breasts underwater and liked how they bounced around.

Sometimes he’ll swim underwater the length of the pool and then turn toward me. Suddenly his face will light up, and I know he’s going to “hunt” me. Nothing is as gleeful as Richard on the hunt. He’ll begin moving toward me, not taking his eyes off my face, watching for the sign that I’m about to bolt. I’ll try to stay put, try to tell myself that he’s just being goofy. But I always spook eventually.

I’m a strong swimmer, but there’s nowhere to go. It’s a small pool and before I can get far enough away to pull myself out, he’s on me. He’ll grab my leg and pull me toward him, chuckling under his breath, then pull me close and slip a hand under my suit, cupping a breast or an ass cheek or my pussy. I have to remind him that people can see us, and he always releases me reluctantly.

I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know if I’m doing a good job. I may have to try again another time.

Here’s how it is: Richard is my mate in a way that I didn’t know about before. I love him like an animal. I need him in a primal way. I physically ache for him when we are separate.

He is mine. Mine.

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