Friday, February 20, 2004

I slept with K. all last night but didn't fuck her. Wanted to of course, sort of, maybe not. And not that it was necessarily an option. I sensed a stiffness in her frame, something closed. But it was no different than it ever was with her so who really knows. Nothing she did, no gesture, no movement, no words seemed to indicate the slightest desire or  even inclination. Besides the time I caressed her back and stopped and she protested with a pleading murmur. So I continued.

I should have caressed the small of her back and slid my fingers under her waistband and caressed her ass and moved my hand lower as I kissed the nape of her neck and her spine and stroked her thighs where her legs meet her ass. Finally touched her cunt, seen her try to maintain that passive composure.

Which I'm sure she would have. But with a little strain now.

And then this, that, the bleary pauses when someone takes off a shirt or underwear, trying not to slow the sex momentum.

And before you know it.

But I didn't and I don't know why. I was reluctant, afraid she didn't want it perhaps, finally daunted by her melancholic and icy Scandinavian manner.

And then there were the bones in her emaciated torso: her shoulders and rib cage seemed scarily sharp, poking her skin into stark relief like the buttresses of a circus tent.