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It was darkening outside now, the last light of the setting sun suffusing the room in a pale pink, and I reached automatically for my cell, looking for a text from you. There it was. I started to read, and then I started to cry, tears wetting my face as I read. You had an ex-wife, you wrote, an ex-wife who had screwed you over literally and metaphorically on each and every tour, including the last one, cut short by an unfortunate encounter with an IED. You had found my most recent story on an erotica site, you wrote, and you knew now that I was a slut, a writer of porn, not the devoted mother and dedicated nurse and good churchgoing United Methodist that I had presented myself as to you. You were washing your hands of me. My fingers trembled as I typed my response, knowing that you would not answer, knowing that nothing I could say to you would change your scarred heart. My own heart heaved in my chest, and I waited, an interminable wait, for your response. No response came, the. I recall the way you murmured encouragement… how you moved your face to mine and your lips parted allowing our tongues to meet. I remember your muffled words… ‘yes… YES’ and your deep sighs of contentment. Now I am thinking of how your hand has circled my hardening shaft… how you gently stroked me to full erection… how you shifted position to be able to encircle it with your mouth and how that made your valley accessible to my kiss and exploration with my tongue. How we both were urgently making ourselves open to the extremes of intimacy. Now I am thinking of how we mutually came to the thought that all needed conclusion. How you arranged us so that my shaft could enter you… how you pressed me close with your legs locked around me… how your sex welcomed mine and enclosed it in that wonderful warmth and wetness… how we moved together so that there was sufficient motion to bring us both to the verge of climax… how those endearing words of encouragement and love passed between us in.
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