I was definitely falling in love, and in spite of everything that might go horribly wrong with it, it felt awesome.I lifted a pad of paper from the table on her bedside. She had written on it in swirly little girlish writing:Anthony Mitchell.If this wasn't real love, I wouldn't be so scared.???!!!???!!!???It was short and simple, but it said it all. I lifted the pen from the table and I turned the page over. I wrote a poem:Girl on a BedA clear and shining Jewelon the petal of a pure peach-colored flower, drifting precariously on an uncertain streamabove the sparkling ripplesthat carry her courageously to unknown ends -She loves me...The depth below is scary though.One slip and she could fall under, lost, beyond my reach forever, leaving an empty petal, drifting down the stream alone -She loves me not...A. J. M.It was a poem about how beautiful she looked, laying there with a somewhat worried look on her face as she slept. It was also about being a teenager in love, and not knowing. After enduring the heartbreak of not being able to be with my true love, I moved here to NH and met a woman at work I'll call Emily. She was the polar opposite of Stevie: more full figured, less religious, raucous rather then demure, not as bright but funny as hell, and so on. She and I were both coming out of failing relationships, so it was a double rebound situation. The sex was pretty hot, two people reveling in that intense feeling of intertwining bodies; the touching, the longing, the passion. So, we moved in together, and made a go of it. It wasn't always easy (and I may elaborate on that another time), but you don't want to hear that, do you, horny Xhamsters? No, you want something more base, more sexual, so here goes.Emily was full-figured (I'll let your tawdry imagination determine what that means). She was DD/E cup, with one of my favorite attributes: long, thick nipples. I could spend hours on those amazing mams,,,squeezing them, sucking them, fucking them. And she was.
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