The deeper the temptation, the stronger the craving. I’m neck deep and damn close to drowning in the heady inspiration that comes from wanting what I can’t have. Innocent collisions with his ever-warm hands have me mentally undressing him. I pray the adjectives aren’t written all over my face and the invitations stay in my throat instead of falling out of my mouth.
When the man you are itching to unwrap also makes you laugh uncontrollably, it’s God testing you.
God- Level up, Honey.
J- It’s awfully unfair of you to make him funny, too.
I’m stuck and I admit it. Dating is pointless suffering, so I’ve turned to my next best cure. Exercise. Beachbody on demand. I’ve signed up for a year and know that the cure for this craving is just a few dozen intense workouts away. Bonus: the results are fantastic.
Self care is a difficult thing for me. I tend to worry about my own needs, last. Feeling so frustrated has taught me to slow down and breathe a little, but it’s also inspired me to the point that I have to run it off. I ran for 2 hours last night to a great podcast about shaking off these dumb feelings, took a bubble bath and went to bed early.
However… my subconscious is a dirty whore. She’s a cockblocking monster that tortures me constantly with my favorite details of him. I fall asleep and dream him right into the places I want him most.
The body I miss, hot, hard and unwrapped. The cologne that haunts me, closing the distance until I feel the length of him against me. The hands I can’t get out of my head, tangled in my hair and around my throat. The naughty grin that makes me wet, biting the back of my neck. The bakers dozen orgasms I really need to fall asleep, with his voice echoing in my ears.
Self induced torture. This is what it looks like. This is also why I’m not sleeping at night. I’m breathing through it by day and struggling to sleep for more than a few hours because I fantasize about hate fucking him every time I close my eyes.
The struggle is real, y’all.
So when you see me this summer with a lovely six pack of abs instead of beer, congratulate me for finding a healthy coping mechanism and struggling with style.