📸 via @maleyphoto on IG

I tilt my head away from my book when I hear the front door click. You're finally home after a long and busy day. Week. Weeks. It feels as if I haven't seen you for months. I catch myself holding my breath as I listen: bag down on the table, jacket up on the hook, a few meows from the gingers and void to welcome you home. It sounds like you're heading straight for the lounge to plop on the couch. The TV comes alive, some sports channel. Probably Fußball or hockey.

I smile to myself - you probably don't even realise I'm here. I've not really moved anything or dropped my things that side of the house to be noticed. To be fair, I also didn't tell you I'd be making a turn. I just hoped for the best.

Quietly I stand up and make my way to the lounge, stand in the doorway, and watch you for a bit. Your back is towards me.

You've finally pulled yourself away. The phones have stopped ringing. No one is looking for you to solve something. You have privacy to breathe, safety in just being alone a bit. A deep breath. Finally you can relax. More importantly - after so long - you are free to be with me: talk to me, look at me, think of me.

Ugh, I don't like the waiting. I don't like that our time has become so scare for each other. The waiting is dreadful.

You sit on your gorgeous new greyish blue L-shaped couch. How convenient that you chose my dream shape couch. The soft light of late autum afternoon paints gold along your beard and shoulders.

I slowly walk towards you. You catch me in your pereferal vision. A bit surprised, yet not surprised in the least to see me. You look at me, acknowledging my presence. You smile.

My knees sink into the cushion beside you until I’m close enough to catch the warmth radiating from your skin. I hope as I lower myself next to you, you'll notice the lucious lavender evenly spread on my lips... hopefully mesmerising you for at least a moment. A faint scent of peppermint drifts past your nose. Your smile brightens, your rosy cheeks glow.

Your right arm rests along the back of the couch, strong and toned, muscles shifting lightly beneath the fabric of your shirt. I lean in and press the gentlest of kisses to your shoulder. The touch is light as air, but it pulls a soft sound from you. Leaning back, you meet my eyes, and for a moment I lose track of what I meant to say.

Hazel. Oak. All those shades if the calm and the wild of you. Mostly calm. The reminder of wood. Ancient, solid, sturdy. Craftsmanship. They feel like a piece an experienced and talented carpenter would spend hours hours on to perfect. Wood that can support weight, that takes up space in the most elegant way. No colours needed because the natural grains, textures and colours are a whole.

I breathe out slowly, my fingers brushing your beard, feeling its uneven softness: dark brown, flecked with light grey, that glint of ginger beneath your lip that always catches the light just right, and a hint of ashy blond. A little odd, cute thought that you used to be a curley light blond haired German boy. Where has all that hair gone! I lightly rub my upper and lower lips together - the Giggle (that's the lipstick colour's name) disappearing for a moment. I pout at you.

I carefully remove your glasses, place them safely on the table. You tilt your head, curious for what is to come. Open. Receptive.

I playfully tug at your black metalhead t-shirt. No idea what it says: I can't read metal font... the letters all ment together. You give a little smirk. You know exactly what I want, so you slip your shirt off. More you to admire. More skin to touch.

Everything in me leans toward you. Making sure I'm as close as possible without putting pressure on your recovering dislocated arm or your chest, I playfully, sweetly, secretly, try to have some or other part of my chest pressed against you. Another whiff of peppermint... this time a bit more complex. You breathe in deeper, trying to catch the scents. A light shea butter, a neutral coconut oil, beeswax. You detect the sweetness of raspberries.

I start at your forehead - a long, steady kiss, filled with all the unspoken longing that’s gathered between us. You exhale against my touch. Then that space just above and between your eyes. The bridge of your eyes? Ever so softly to your eye. One, then the other.... where the faint wrinkles hide, places I’ve not kissed enough and still discover something new every time. A beautiful show of your smiles and laughs in life. I adore them. They remind me of the little >/< signs.

I kiss the bridge of your nose next. My smaller, sharper nose grazing against yours. I lazily drag my lips to your rosy cheeks, warm and faintly rough. The plaster on my thumb catches slightly as I trace the edge of your jaw, and I notice the way your breath shifts... slower, deeper. I pause there, my hands resting against your skin, drinking in the nearness. My pale powder purple dress hitches up slightly as I make myself a bit more comfortable.

Now your neck. To the side, below your ear where your pulse beats steady and sure. I press my lips there, slow and tender, tasting the faint salt from sweat on your skin. Your autumn is running late, your days still hot. My lipstick leaves a lipstick print - it accentuate the veins running down your neck.

My boring brown with a faint natural tint of auburn hair slips forward, brushing across your face and shoulder, mingling with your majestic beard. You laugh softly, and I smile as I move it aside with the back of my hand. You gently remove my dirty pink hairclaw, gather my hair in a swift movement, give it a twist, and reclip everything. I don't want anything getting in the way of your skin and my lips.

You tilt your head to the left, exposing your neck again, letting me find that rhythm again. I stay there, breathing you in - the scent of those 'oud' products that you use; warm but foresty, comforting. Something woody. Oaky like your eyes. I can't help but run my tongue up along your neck (that space between your Adam's apple and the side of your neck). In quick succession I place little quick pecks along the same line.

I take your right hand next, turning it palm-up. I kiss the back of it, then the space between your thumb and forefinger, feeling the strength beneath the softness of your skin. You squeeze my hand lightly, and I look up, my heart catching at the sight of your pleasure.

I bite the side of my lower lip for a moment, contemplating. I rotate your hand. Watching your expression to make sure you're okay, I slowly bring my lips to your thumb. I kiss the fingernail, then the knuckle, then drag my lips along your thumb, leaving a streak of lipstick. My lips return to the tip of your thumb. I lock eyes with you. In a slow, tantalising, seductive movement, I lower my mouth to your thumb. Slowly to pace myself. Slowly to let you feel every millimeters of your thumb being covered by my lips, my tongue grazing your skin, the wet and warmth of my mouth against you... and as I wrap your thumb in my mouth, I softly, slowly suck your thumb.

I try to keep my eyes on yours, watching your face. Assessing your reaction. I twirl my tongue around your thumb, grinning. If we had time and privacy, I could almost quarentee my lips and mouth would do the same elsewhere.... My thighs clench at the thought.

A soft growl in your throat, followed by a heavy sigh, "Süße". Your eyes are closes. Your muscles relaxed. Enjoying the moment. Enjoying us being together.

Sucking softer. Sucking harder. Pulling my mouth slightly away and then pressing it down again. Moving away, my teeth ever so very, very lightly graze your skin. Closing my eyes, little mumbles of pleasure creep out of my chest. I give a long, hard suck.

Although I don't want to, I pull my lips steadily and excruciating slowly off your thumb, making sure you hear that sound of my suck-kiss ending. I breathe heavily into your heavenly neck... I need to catch myself.

My lips wander next to your jawline, tracing the edge with slow, lingering kisses until I reach your chin. I kiss there once, twice, thrice, before brushing my fingers through your beard again, marveling at its colour. The greys, the browns, that flicker of red that feels almost alive in the light. I love every strand, every colour... my handsome. Multi-coloured, now with some matte velvet purple colouring. I press my face against yours, the pressure making my head spin. I whisper against it, not words exactly, more a breath shaped by longing.

I lift my dark hazel-olive eyes, meeting yours fully. Everything slows - the light, the sound, the space between us. I close my eyes again and press my lips to yours. The kiss is deep, tender, unhurried.

With strong, sure, and tender arms, you pull me onto your lap. I breathe out sharply. You know I like it when you take control and move me as you will. I wish you would grab me every single day in some way or another. Hold me. Keep me close.

Getting comfortable yourself on the couch, your magic hands run up my body - from the back of my thighs to my middle back. My dress follows suit. A shiver runs down my spine. You know without a doubt the lace beneath my dress is specially for you. A treat for your touch now and sight soon.

I melt into the curve of you. My fingers find the back of your neck, my forehead brushing yours as our breaths tangle. I cave to your magic touch, your magic lips.

Your hands find my hips, you curl your fingers. My head falls back, my mouth ajar. I'm putty in your hands.

Lost in your heartbeat. My mind becoming fuzzy. I focus on the warmth of your lips, the way your thumb moves absently along my side, the loaded silence between us. You do things to my head. Oh, how I hope I do those same sort of things to your head.

I stay close, my lips grazing yours,  “Worth the wait?" I whisper.

Taking my chin in your hand, you kiss me passionately. Your answer. A deep longing. An vow that tonight is just for us. When we eventually do fall asleep, it will be next to each other. When I wake, it will be snuggly in your arms. And filled with kisses.

First post here... I hope it fits ☺️

I hate, loathe, actually despise the way people talk about love and relationships today.

All this modern-day pop psychology. The diagnoses. The terminology. It’s like we’re all standing around in lab coats dissecting frogs.

“Oh no,” he says when he sees me winding up for this rant. “Don’t do it.”

Too late.

If the following words make up half your relationship vocabulary, there’s at least a chance the problem isn’t everybody else.....it's you:

Narcissist. Boundaries. Showing up. Gaslighting. Triggered. OCD. On the spectrum. Trauma. Racist. Toxic. Toxic masculinity. Patriarchy.

Blah, blah, blah.

Somewhere along the way, we started talking about the people we love as though they were case studies. Every flaw needs a diagnosis. Every disagreement needs a label. Every hurt needs a culprit.

I don’t want to love that way....and neither should you.

I believe we are all born with enough light and enough love. No exceptions. And if you spend your life working overtime destroying your own light, or the light in other people, you may never get to know either one.

And I think "knowing that light" is where healing begins and lives.

To lie with him in "our light" is where I heal and get energized.

Fine. Maybe you heal some other way. Maybe the whole thing sounds ridiculously corny. Spiritual beings. Light. Souls. Whatever. Fine.

I still believe in love.

I’ve seen his soul naked and vulnerable, and it is a beautiful place to be.

That is something I would fight for.

Something I will protect.

Something I find immensely, overwhelmingly beautiful.

You can be peace, or you can be war.

I choose peace.

And I’d have it no other way.

I'm the type of person that requires actual connection and deep talks, real intimacy, attention for me to enjoy sex at all. Every here and there ai still might try hooking up with someone for less butI always regret it and it's not satisfying and I can't orgasm at all. In the past and still present I have waited and made real
connections with people and not had sec until that was established, but then after actually trying to have sex or connect that way i realize there is no compatibility sexually. Sometimes that can be taught but most of the time even with direction people don't really follow or listen to it.
Anyway, out of all the people I've hooked up with in a relationship or out (I'm 30 btw so i've had a fair share) why are the only ones I feel sexually compatible with on a real love have nothing to offer? No job, no direction, and even if i give them a chance and ignore the fact that they are a work in progress they end up using me. For money; for a place to stay, for someone to lean on and take care of them and feel bad for them. My last two long term relationships were like that and ended so so badly for me. I just ended up being more like a mom and taking care of them. I learned to see the red flags so I don't get involved on that level anymore with men that have those qualities. But even if i try casual sex with them it ended up being great and hard to ignore. Men with nothing else to offer probably make up for it with being great in bed but it's such a struggle for me as someone who has trouble enjoying sex with most men, they don't give you any real attention before or after and are too selfish and like i said don't hear direction.

Sorry for the novel but PLEASE help.

There are days when I slip into a bit of melancholy about life. It’s not a sadness. It’s not a long list of things I wish were different, or that I had made different decisions, things like that. It’s a bit more like there’s a realization that, within the world and life I am actively cultivating with him…. and my family, my children, my two daughters and son, my siblings, my elderly mother, friends….I see them struggling with things that I’ve already had some success in resolving.

This is where I generally say, “I hope that makes sense.”…or bla, bla, bla….here comes the rant.

I sometimes wonder if part of the melancholy is some guilt about what might appear, from the outside observer, to be the ease with which he and I navigate this phase of our lives. And what I mean by that is, from the outside, it might look like we know what we’re doing and we’ve got it all figured out.

It’s quite the opposite.

I’ve been honest here in these pages that we’re figuring it out as we go.

My youngest daughter mentioned this weekend that he and I have “ruined it for everyone else,” and I was shocked to hear her say that. It was a compliment, but I didn’t receive it as such. My instinct was, “But we didn’t ruin it for anybody. This is how we do it. You need to find your path.”

And what she said was, “Mom, you and Dad are the goal, and I have no real expectation of achieving what you guys have. You guys have something that’s so special and so rare. I just don’t see it in other places and with other people.”

I considered my response to her, and I said, “I’m not sure what to say to that, sweetheart, but I will say that your happiness and your path do not have to look like mine. And if there’s somewhere inside you that thinks I have an expectation of you creating some version of our life, then I want to relieve you of that burden right now. You’re beautiful. You’re smart. You’re educated. Waiting for life to happen is a lot different than making life happen.”

Now, it’s not that the weekend is without its lessons, but I loathe the idea of lecturing. I’ve turned down what feels like thousands of opportunities, even here within the subreddit, to coach people because I just really wouldn’t know what to say or what to do.

When I talk about our lives and I talk about what I do, I get enough criticism already. And what I realize is most people are sitting at home living vicariously through other people’s lives and have made criticizing other people an art form.

I don’t know how to give advice any longer, particularly at my age. I don’t subscribe to the “let them” theory. I am more direct and, at times, harsher than you might expect, because it is my belief, and that’s rooted in my experiences, that everything in my life, everything, everything that has been good in our relationship, this arc of this 30-plus-year marriage, became better, became elevated, when we both began to own our shit within our marriage.

And here I am, almost gagging at having written this awful fucking platitude-style narrative about finding happiness or joy or whatever you want to call it. Because whatever wisdom there might be for me to dispense at our age, we’ve gotten to the place where we don’t give advice to anyone any longer.

Well, I’ll call your bullshit if you ask…for sure but advice?  No.

If someone asks me for advice, I usually ask two or three questions, and they’re usually upset because it’s always: What have you done? What have you created? What changes have you made? What are you avoiding in terms of fixing or working the things you need to get better at? What trauma are you still using as an excuse to blame others?  See where this goes?

Because you can’t fix another person. I can’t fix him. He can’t fix me.

We are two imperfect people who choose to dance with one another, his flailing arms, my swinging hips. It all ends up making some form of unique, magical dance that we call our relationship….our marriage.

Be that as it may, whatever it is, boring, arrogant, narcissistic, whatever…..what I’ve realized, especially at this point in my life and after the challenges we’ve overcome, is that I am faster to say “fuck you” than he is when I feel that outside criticism or outside heat source coming toward us.

I turn into Xena the Warrior Princess. I’m like, “Fuck you. Don’t fuck with my family. Don’t fuck with my man.” And, said in an accent, “I’ll fucking cut you before I let you continue to badmouth us any longer.”

I realize, again, how awful that sounds but grant me some poetic license in trying to get my point across.

But this melancholy keeps creeping in from time to time, and I have made peace with that melancholy. There are days, and this Sunday is one of those days where I’m simply sitting with the melancholy. I look at the people struggling, and there is a part of me that wants to reach out and fix it for them.

But there’s someone wiser now who knows that, ultimately, there’s nothing I can do except simply live my life and, as I’ve always said in these pages, take whatever might work from our experiences and leave the stuff that doesn’t work for you.

It’s baffling to me that some people come into this community and take one sentence or one image and turn it into their own toxic-filled, vitriolic manifesto about their perception of who we are. It used to bother me. It doesn’t anymore. That’s a quick click to block, and we move on with the community here.

But that melancholy that I’m sitting with today is this:

I look at my own mother. I look at my siblings. I look at my children and I watch them metaphorically banging their heads against problems that can sometimes be solved by either letting go of some things, accepting some things, or moving on from some things.

And I listen patiently to them tell me why, to some degree, it’s someone else’s fault that they’re either stuck, unwilling to move on, unwilling to accept, or unwilling to forgive.

And don’t get me wrong. I get stuck too….as do many of you.

But for every second that you hold on to “stuff”, it’s one more second that you are keeping joy from showing up.

I’m feeling nauseous just reading my own awful words here.

But in developing this very quote today…. We are not machines. We are human beings with a full range of emotions, a full range of needs, wants, hopes, desires, dreams. We have decisions to make about how all that comes to fruition. And we need each other. We need calm. We need space. We need love. We need art. We need music. We need food that’s healing. We need hugs. We need each other.

And we also need to grow into individuals who are fully realized by accepting that the world is the world, and the only thing that we can control is how we react to it and how we navigate within it.

A big part of that is acceptance and forgiveness. And the unbelievably unhealthy fascination with trauma and blame and canceling is probably our undoing, because when someone figures out how to heal themselves, it’s not always embraced by those who are still in their misery.

This melancholy will pass.

We’re down to our last few weekends of nice weather, and while he’s watching football, I have prepared a massive plate of nachos, some ceviche, and a pitcher of margaritas. I’m going to put on a scandalously tiny bikini, some sexy heels, giant hoop earings, pull my hair through a baseball cap, don some rock star sun glasses and saunter out to the pool, turn on the game, and invite him out to enjoy lunch with me before the cold weather ends our pool days.

I can guarantee you three things will happen today.

1.        He will smile and he will literally jump up and down with joy.

2.        He will tell me unbelievably sweet things.

3.        His dick is going to get sucked while he’s watching the football game.

So, when people ask me, “How do you guys do it?” all my secrets are here on these pages and here in these posts.

If this sounds cheap, if it sounds fabricated, if it sounds performative, if it sounds vapid, if it sounds made up, if it sounds sensationalized, I will allow all of that if it makes you feel better about yourself.

I will be making an opportunity to have joy join us this Sunday….and I’d have it no other way.