I don’t want to fuck you [as published in Elephant Journal]
Sex is overrated.
Don’t get me wrong, I do love a good romp in the sheets as much as the next person—but sex, in and of itself, is really nothing more than the fulfillment of the human need to reproduce.
It feels good, because it’s supposed to. That’s what makes us want to do it again and again—and again. But, when it comes down to it, all that bumping, grinding, moaning, sweat, and ecstasy that lasts anywhere from several minutes to several hours is really just two dogs in heat answering the call of nature—and I find nothing appealing in that thought.
No, what I want is to make love.
Making love is an act of tender affection that never ends. It begins in the morning when I wake you with soft kisses on your neck and a whisper of love in your ear.
It moves to the living room where, still naked, we do yoga together—helping each other with those difficult stretches. Our bodies working together, as in some mystical game of Twister that ends in shared meditation. Your hand holds mine on your heart, while I hold yours on mine. We share breath, inhale for exhale, and our combined awareness grows.
It carries into the shower, where life-giving water flows over our bodies, which touch and bump lightly. The careful caress of your shoulders. The way I wash your hair for you. It’s how you towel me dry, and how I kiss you gently and wish you a “Good morning, beautiful.”
In the kitchen, we share our plans for the day, read each other the news, and share coffee. We joke, and smile, and rant—and when the last minute we can spend together comes, we kiss passionately. We kiss like we may never see each other again, like we know, absolutely, that today the world could end—and that this could be our last kiss. Then, we get into our cars and drive away, into those worlds that only serve to support our little paradise.
During the day, I text love quotes and send silly memes of cats—and I tell you how much I love you. Not just on those “special” days, but every day, because every day with you is special to me.
When the day is over—and they are never over soon enough—we meet at home and give each other what we need to end our day, whether it be to discuss our day or to withdraw long enough to separate from the outside world that ever threatens to find its way into our shared life.
We talk while we prepare dinner together. Simple talk. Small talk, though there is nothing small about it. It has purpose. It lightens the mood and releases the last of the workday stresses before we share our meal. I feed you with my hands and lick the olive oil from your fingers after you dip your bread. You kiss the crumbs from my lips.
We clear the table and do the dishes together—our hands touching in the warm soapy water, our bodies close and warm.
If there is time (and there is rarely time these days), we sit in quiet adoration of each other on the couch while a movie plays. I won’t remember which movie tomorrow—I will only remember the feel of your hand in mine. The way you touch my neck. The feel of your breasts pressed against me. The warmth and comfort of you as you rest your head on my chest, and I pull you close.
When the movie has ended, we will move to the bedroom where I will undress you slowly, so I can memorize every perfect flaw of your body. The small mole on your arm. The tiny scar where your brother broke a glass when you were 10 years old. The circle on your arm from childhood vaccinations. The love lines of motherhood. I want to drink you in and make a map of the places I will visit with finger, tongue, and lips.
We will start and end with kisses and laughter, and what happens in between will be nothing less than complete union—physical, spiritual, and emotional oneness that will raise us to the Divine and proclaim our love through that most sacred ecstasy.
When we are complete, I will hold you close as you shudder with prolonged rapture. Our breath and heartbeat—for we now share both—slows. I will kiss your neck and whisper the words you know are true: “I love you”—and I’ll fall asleep knowing that you love me too.
Why would I ever want to f*ck you when I can have that?
As published in Elephant Journal
Author: J.M. Greff
Image: Author’s own
Editor: Yoli Ramazzina
Copy editor: Leah Sugerman
Social editor: Callie Rushto