The Taste of Her

First story, one that reflects on 30 years of marriage. I have never stopped loving the taste of her.

Tonight: returning from a trip. I’m not certain what it is about travel—perhaps simply the distance, the knowledge that should something go terribly wrong, I will not see her again. She, the woman of my dreams (then, and now), the one who has so often been my comfort, my friend, my doorway to prayer. Making love to her before I leave is a celebration of all that we have shared; making love to her when I return is an act of gratitude to her and to God.

Tonight, my gratitude was strong. We are in the midst of busy lives, with three young adult children: one working, two in college. There are still many moving parts on any given day. But with the youngest now newly away from home, there are fewer moving parts than when the kids were young. Sometimes, we can even make love with reasonable assurance that no one— including her mother, who lives with us—will interrupt.

Tonight, like so many nights, she was really tired. There are a thousand reasonable explanations why weariness has been a regular feature of our love life, and I have never held it against her or myself. But I long for a time when we can recapture some of the regularity that was a feature of our first seven years of marriage, before we had children.

I wanted to make love to her. I could see she was tired. So I knew that it would be a night when I had to make it worth her while.

She is generous; she knew I wanted her. She lay in the bed, naked, observing that she was willing but not likely to be able to generate much energy.

Never have I wanted to take advantage of her. Never have I demanded anything of her. Once, when at a doctor’s visit describing some of her health challenges, she described me as an “incredibly generous lover”—this, in response to the doctor’s question about her ability to orgasm. “Oh wow, yes,” she said, somewhat to the doctor’s surprise, describing how on a bad night she will have only a couple. On good nights it’s three, four, five—each one a new delight to me.

Tonight, I knew, was about offering her a chance to unwind and fall asleep to that remarkable cocktail of brain chemicals that follow sex.

First, hands and feet: she loves when I massage them, calming her body and inviting her to relax. I, who even in my 50s can get turned on more or less instantly, will usually feel the rush of adrenaline the moment I begin the massage. Erect, I will direct my energies to getting deep into her muscle tissue. Frequently I will stand on the side of the bed, my penis grazing her thigh as I begin to work on her feet. Eventually I will straddle her, with my penis just barely touching the skin of her back as I knead into her shoulders.

Tonight, knowing she was too tired for her own turn-on to happen quickly, I conversed with her about the day, the travel. I am patient. She and I knew where this was going, so there was no rush.

Eventually I had her turn over. I love seeing her naked on the bed. She has always been sexy to me, the fruit of our long and deeply committed marriage. It is not difficult for me to stay erect when we take our time. I began running the tips of my fingers across her skin, from neck to toe. I know she loves the sensuality of light touch, and I could see the muscles of her face relaxing into the enjoyment of the experience. At that point, I simply described what I would do from there. “I’m going to touch you, then kiss you, then lick you.”

Fast forward. She loves when I kiss her breasts. That I do with or without invitation. Tonight, I lingered there, slowly swirling her nipples with my tongue. It is easy to see the response as her nipples harden and her breath begins to change. Still grazing the rest of her body with my fingertips, I began to move my hands a to each breast, sucking more deeply and sensing her rising desire.

It is at that point that I know she is ready, My fingers go between her legs; I begin lightly, ever so lightly, stroking her vulva, and then ever so carefully parting the lips to stroke her clit. She closes her legs tightly around my hand; she is now turned on. I feel the muscles in her pelvis contracting, her legs flexing. I tickle her clit.

She opens her legs, and I go in. By now she has grabbed my penis. I love the sensation of that and do not want her to let go. So I bend, hands gently opening her legs, and begin licking her clit.

I love the taste of her. Sometimes I will simply call to mind in the middle of the day the times when I have licked her to orgasm, and I will desire her again. Tonight, I am so eager for the taste of her! My fingers part her lips so I can get right at her clit, and I cannot get enough. Licking, stroking, kissing, sucking, encircling, penetrating with my tongue. She. Loves. Every. Minute. Of. It.

I am in no rush. I have learned patience. She motions my waist towards her. I pause, mount the bed and straddle her face while she takes several long, slow sucks of my penis. I watch her do this in the soft red light of our room. It seems that she is no longer exhausted.

She pauses, and says “come on top of me.” I see that she is wildly turned on. I ask “Do you want some more?” I am still hungry for her. “Yes,” she says, and I move the pillows so she can recline, propped up, legs spread before me.

I love the view of her as I lick her. Her breasts heave as she takes in breaths of sheer delight. I love seeing her face to the ceiling, sometimes now looking down and seeing me delighting in the taste of her clit. I paintbrush, swirl, figure eight; I wrap my lips around her vulva and suck slowly and deeply.

This goes on for a while. I cannot get enough. She cannot get enough. She has probably already come a couple of times but I keep going. Eventually she is ready and says simply “come here,” and I rise to kiss her.

There is something about the perfect lubrication that comes from slow, deliberate oral sex that makes for finishing together magical. Almost invariably we clasp hands—she so frequently seeking out mine and wanting me to hold her down on the bed while she comes for the last time. Watching her, I have become adept at finishing with her. Her eyes will close and her hips thrust into me, legs locked around the shaft of my penis. In recent years she has become more able to release emotion, the fruit of no longer having children in the next rooms. The floor is empty. So she is able to express her orgasm beautifully, and I am only too happy to join her, exhaling deeply as I feel the pulsating release as she rocks her pelvis under mine. God, that’s amazing!