I am a woman with raging hormones, as the creator intended.
My body longs to be touched, molested, ravaged and pursued by a man whose only desire is to satisfy the passion in his loins.
My sexual adventurousness began with my first husband and he is probably the measure by which all others have been compared. He and I had escapades that only he and I will ever know about. We liked the adventure of public places and the idea that we wanted it "so bad" that it had to be now or never. **sigh** I miss that excitement; that rush of adrenalin and pure ecstacy. Someone else enjoys that now as he has remarried and so have I. It's been five years and a couple months since I had a sexual experience with that man, however, I think about him on occasion. Mostly when my hormones have got the best of me.
I feel no guilt for thinking about him and his EXTREME skill in taking me to the heights of heaven. He took my body to places it probably will never experience again. Bittersweet for me. Bitter because the way our relationship ended... Sweet because of the memories it has imprinted upon my memory and consequently, my body.
I am constrained from giving in to my every whim. Most times, I am content to fantasize and reminisce on what "was" and am satisfied knowing that I had experienced him at all. We had such a special connection, one that I will probably always hang on to. More than likely, on my death bed, I will recall his face, his scent and his brilliant mind. He will probably greet me at death's door to assist me in my birth into the next world.
I've said goodbye to his memory a million times and vowed total commitment to the man that shares my world now. But I find myself here, at this apex, with such vivid yet distant memories of my first love.