For My White Chocolate

Moving forward can be a challenging journey, especially when lingering on memories tied to sentimental items such as photographs, videos, and personal belongings like jackets. Without consciously removing these triggers, the process of healing and letting go becomes more intricate.

I can't tell why, but I recently found myself immersed in a collection of photos of someone I held dear. Regrettably, our relationship failed to move past the initial stages where we first crossed paths. Nostalgia gripped me as I revisited these moments frozen in time, making the task of moving on all the more daunting. Yet, recognizing the importance of decluttering my surroundings from these emotional anchors is a crucial.

Physical attraction is a significant aspect for me, and I prioritize it over considerations of the soul. I'm less concerned about the intangible qualities and more focused on the outward appearance, especially when it comes to men. While I make a point not to body shame anyone, I adhere to what personally appeals to me.

The rationale behind my emphasis on physical appearance lies in its perceived stability. Unlike behaviors, which can change without clear indicators, the body tends to undergo transformations that are visibly influenced. Whether through surgeries, specific diets, or workouts, changes in the body are typically more straightforward to trace.

In contrast, modifying behavior can be a more elusive endeavor. The avenues for altering behavior are limited, making it a complex and sometimes unpredictable aspect of human interaction. This distinction reinforces my stance towards physical attraction, appreciating the relative certainty it brings compared to the nuances of behavioral changes.

I can't let go of his pictures and videos; they're like pieces of our past. When I miss him, I go to my wardrobe and smell his jacket for comfort, remembering how it felt when he wore it.

Looking at his photos, I pay attention to the small things – how his arm is positioned, the expressions on his face, and the way he stands. I even zoom in on some photos to see his toes, especially when he wore open-toed shoes. Those photos are special to me, they keep me thinking through our fragile moments together.

The sex was good. No! It was beyond good. Or maybe, he was good. I don't want to dwell on that.

You see, I was always floating each time I travelled to meet him. The few times I did happened to add a lot of leafs to my book of good life.

The first time I visited was when he just moved. I was proud of what he had made. Everything was clean as usual. He was glowing as usual. His scent was even better. His words were soft as usual. I looked at the duvet and could only imagine the amazing sleep I'd have, with his body close to mine, fondling against the cold room, against you, and against the entire world.

I hadn't been with anyone for long, so he met me the same way he left me. Attachments like that will leave anyone gasping.

Things got more intense. He looked so good and I wanted to truly swallow all of him. I couldn't,  so I licked on every part I could hold onto. Man was sweet, like some white chocolate cream.

Sex with him was easy. There was nothing to think about. Everything came easily. You know how people beg to be touched, get scared to talk about what they want and sometimes just pray it ends soon? That was never us.

We were friends who had said the worst things to each other on our first encounter. Everything afterwards had been nothing but respect and admiration.

He missed me. I saw it in his eyes, in the way he grabbed my butt, in the way he fondled my bosom. I could kiss him all the time because I loved him, he was clean, and had a good breath. 

It was crazy. We had long conversations through our exercise and he wouldn't go soft on me, irrespective of how much we laughed or had other bad emotions come in-between. It was good chemistry. 

We chatted about friends, about food, and our personal interests during sex. I was proud of what we had. I wanted everyone to know. I moaned aloud for his neighbours to hear. I wanted to announce it to the world that he was the one I was sleeping with.  Crazy right?

Only him has put me in those positions. I could have farted on his face, but who was checking?

Everyone wants an easy life. Man got tons of lubricants. I never had to feel bad for when the fan or air conditioner dried me up. Man was intentional about me. It was glaring.

He would suspend my legs in the air by supporting my thighs. I don't even want to delve into his compliments of me, that should make a whole new story. He would then bury his tongue deep in. He always knew where my clit was. Every stroke hit the right spot. I reach orgasm every time with him but I get quiet about it. It comes too easy with his techniques.

He would kiss my thighs, compliment them, move himself upwards, kiss me roughly, and then get back to my middle. He wanted me to have a taste of myself. I loved it.

His penis fits perfectly. There couldn't be another penis anywhere in the world to match his. I know, I know. 

At his first thrust, pleasure found its melody and screamed through me. No one else was having a better night than I was.

Then, these things and newer ones happened with every of my visit. 

Even though we didn't have the kind of connection that brought about a sense of belonging, we were everything we could be.

You see why I am so fixated? No you don't see it.

No, nothing happened, but when you do nor belong somewhere, you just are like a makeshift. You can only pray for another of your time to come.

I'm tired. 

Image 1: The Internet 

Image 2: S.O.J