I don’t want sex anymore, I tell him as he lays naked in my bed.

What do you want? he asks.

Oh. I don’t know, I reply. But I do know.

I know what I want but I’m scared to tell you for these stupid games we play between us. I don’t want sex. I don’t want fucking. But you have to know what I want if not one of those. I still want the bodily contact and the ecstasy, but in that other form, the kind called lovemaking.

There. I said it. I want to make love.

I want caresses and holding and looking deep into my eyes. I want the skies of the world in that stare, showing me you do care. I want sweet nothings of love and desire whispered in my ear as you hold me close and slowly make love to me. I want each sensation to ripple through my whole body, heart, mind, and soul, and in order to do that it takes more than sex, more than fucking. It takes inch by inch of feeling for someone, of showing your feelings for them, of being open to give and receive love.

Why do I always get the ones who can’t give or receive love? Am I projecting? Is that really me? And why do I want this love I speak of? Will it make me happy? But aren’t I supposed to be [happy] already? I guess I’ve found out that sex and fucking can only sustain me so far, can only entertain my cravings for connection so far, then I hit the wall, and it’s the Ocean I want; it’s the dam I want to break.