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It’s not supposed to be like this.

It’s not supposed to be this easy. And when it’s hard, when it’s uncomfortable, we’re not supposed to be so rational. The give and take is not perfect. It’s never perfect. But it’s not utterly unfair and there’s this tendency towards seeking a compromise, towards looking out for the other’s comfort without ignoring our own needs.

It’s not supposed to be like that.

I’m not supposed to understand him this well.

I’m not supposed to figure out how to give him what he needs like this, or derive so much joy in doing so. I’m not supposed to be so happy changing who I am and what I want because seeing that smile changes who I am and what I want. I note its causes and its rare surprise appearances, and I want to reproduce its causes. And I myself change as I change what I aim for.

And he smiles.

And it’s not supposed to be like that.

I’m not supposed to wake up knowing he’s just walked into the room. He’s not supposed to know just where and how much to tease me. Or how much I like taking sexual orders when I’m sleepy. Or how much I’m addicted to feeling him come inside me. He’s not supposed to make me ask for it. I’m not supposed to like it. We’re not supposed to keep our clothes on. Or off. Or feel this peaceful and relaxed and turned on. He’s not supposed to… set me off just thinking about my thighs tight around his hips, my legs locked around his ass, knees high and pulling him in. The way he’d tease my clit with the head of his cock. How he breathed into my hair and slid his cock in slow and held my hand with our fingers entwined while he pumped his come into my pussy. Looking into his eyes, just catching our breath, our legs still shaking.

I wasn’t supposed to say that.

We were supposed to just be experimenting. Don’t ask me what the hell happened. It’s not supposed to be like this. I mean, not only do we fuck like porno overachievers, we even make love.

Yep - I said it.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

He’s not supposed to be able to guess what I want or need before it occurs to me to mention it. He’s not supposed to be on the same page I am before I even told him what book we were reading. He’s not supposed to be so stubborn…

(…then again, neither am I.)

He’s not supposed to have earned my admiration and respect to such a degree that I would be willing to give up my life to ensure his survival, knowing it would be a sacrifice well worth making, within a few weeks of knowing him.

I’m not supposed to be like that.

I’m not supposed to be screaming things I don’t mean at the top of my lungs in an SUV while staring at signs of my future and realizing I might be on a steady path to somewhere…

…wherever the hell that is…

that I had no intention of even visiting.

It’s a sense of last-minute panic and impending doom. It’s smiling to yourself and feeling guilty like you sold yourself out but you liked the price. It’s frantically looking for excuses and exits, knowing all along that you’ve already made your decision.

It’s not supposed to be this easy.

This moment of clarity brought to you by Leos, vodka, and amateur strippers.