I was on my knees and elbows, my forehead nearly kissing the duvet, and when he moved carefully out I turned my head up and over my shoulder and gave him a smile. I volunteer at a gallery, and I felt like I gave him the smile that I give visitors when they walk into the building if we make eye contact. He patted my hip fondly, reminiscent of the way you would pat a dog as it sat in your lap. I pushed the hair sticking to my forehead to the side.
Nearly all of the time boys take me from behind I fantasise about girls, replaying the familiar scenarios in my head that get me off. I don’t know when it started. It’s always been like this. I never tell them that I do.
I replied to this but I’ll just go ahead and reblog, too.
These sentences: “I volunteer at a gallery, and I felt like I gave him the smile that I give visitors when they walk into the building if we make eye contact. He patted my hip fondly, reminiscent of the way you would pat a dog as it sat in your lap.”
This here’s a reason to write. It’s providing a new perspective. The moments when the reader turns away from the screen, puts down the book, or simply looks away, for a moment or more, to reconcile the known point of view with the unfamiliar. It’s opening the reader’s eyes to the fact that everything is not understood nearly as completely as one would like to think.