Simple

It’s such a simple thing.

I go to him in the evening, wound tight with the stress of demanding customers, self-imposed deadlines and battles between the quickly-shifting childish alliances which form in my house over such matters as Care Bears, puzzles or the prized Dora shoes.

Almost vibrating with tension, I try to breathe it out as I pause in front of his door. But he’s heard me on the stairs; he cracks the door and pulls me inside before I have a chance either to relax or knock.

He wastes no time stripping off my clothes. He’s already naked and hard, having spent the past twenty minutes edging in anticipation of my arrival.

I push him toward the bedroom, where he’s already laid out lube, condoms and a choice toy or two on the nightstand. Before long I’m spread across his bed with a well-lubed glass toy thrusting hard against my g-spot.

I love it. I scream both from pleasure and the release of tension, glad that his bedroom is against an outer wall of the building instead of (embarrassingly) against his neighbor’s.

I administer some stress-relief to him, and then he de-stresses me just a little bit more. He keeps his hands on me, massaging gently over and over my vulva and shaved mons. It’s heavenly, and though those three troublesome little words have never crossed our lips, I feel it from his attentions.

When I leave his house (not ninety minutes after I arrived), I think how very simple it all was. How long did it take him to set things up for me? Ten minutes, perhaps? Did he spend twenty minutes showering and shaving?

We’ve never shared a meal. He’s bought me exactly nothing. We’ve used no time discussing anything about the state of our relationship or where it might be headed.

We do talk: about work, children, family and other relationships. We talk about our shared interests and we soothe together our bodies. It works.

And it’s amazingly simple. I can’t believe something this simple could have gone so wrong for me before.