Make up sex: I’d forgotten what kisses taste like

Image by the fabulous Stuart F Taylor

When the fuck is done, he doesn’t ask why I’m crying. Even though this is make up sex, and this weeping is more intense than any that’s come before. He doesn’t ask why, he just holds me. Kneeling on the floor, with my arms wrapped round his neck, and his spunk rapidly cooling on the inside of my thighs, I sob and sob and sob. And he doesn’t ask me why.

He was tentative, for the first thirty seconds. Those first moments of connection that felt like discovery, he was gentle with me. As if anything harder than careful touches and shy kisses would startle me and make me run away.

I was startled, but I didn’t want to run. My cunt throbbed with longing. Instinctively, he realised I was into this. I needed this.

This isn’t true make up sex. For that there’d have to be bitterness and anger and fights in the too-raw immediate past, not this vague cloud of misery that’s lingered for God knows how long. Besides, something about ‘make up sex’ implies that everything’s fixed now. That one solid bang will blow away the cobwebs and everything will be OK again.

It won’t be OK, but that’s OK. Fucking, after all, is not magic. But the fuck we’re about to have – the one that follows his gentle kisses and shy approach – will bring us from a place where the very idea of hugging feels transgressive, to a point where we treat a lack of sex as mildly frustrating, rather than the end of the world.

“We haven’t fucked for ages.”

“Except Sunday.”

“Oh yeah. And Saturday evening too, now I think about it.”

“And last week, when you came back from…?”

“True. Maybe we should cancel this pity party.”

It’s not ideal, but it’s a step in the right direction. But to get here, we first have to go from nothing to something. From touching-as-transgression to intimacy that feels right.

Make up sex

He started it with soft kisses. Gentleness and shyness and discovery. I realised almost immediately that I’d forgotten what his kisses tasted like. How odd. That something so common could simply slip my mind. When he kissed me, I got a sudden and powerful burst of nostalgia. The same nostalgia I feel when getting a scent of summer on a really hot day – the realisation that this comes from elsewhere: Malaga or Florida or Kyoto in July. I’ve smelt this before, and I didn’t realise I missed it.

I’ve kissed him so much before that the taste of him stopped being noteworthy. Yet when the flavour of his mouth came back, it hit me immediately – both foreign and familiar. Exciting. A day at the beach, eating ice cream in Disneyland. Strolling hand-in-hand through the gardens of Kinkakuji.

I’d forgotten what his kisses tasted like, even though they taste so fucking good: that’s the cause of the first tear that rolls down my cheek.

Next came from the realisation that I wanted him inside me. As if his dick would have the power to fix our problems. I took a deep breath and held it as I told him: “Please fuck me.”

He stripped off my clothes and fucked me on the sofa. My legs spread wide to get as much of him inside me as possible. His cock thick and hard and feeling so much like it fit.

Just as I forget the taste of kisses, so I always forget just how neatly we tesselate. It’s been the same no matter who ‘he’ might be. The act of fucking when I miss someone’s cock means that cock will inevitably feel perfect. But maybe his is more perfect than most.

Make-up sex highlights that I’ve forgotten how it feels to have him inside me. Forgotten how easy it is to let go. Forgotten not just his kisses and his cock but the taste of his sweat and the feel of his hands on my body. The pleasure of holding him tight between my thighs, and breathing in the same small space as another person who cares about me.

Forgotten, really, that I loved him.

I have rarely come as hard as I did then: a shuddering, teeth-gritting, blackout orgasm that left me shaking and weak. His eyes grew wide as he shoved himself into me – knees planted firmly on the floor and hands gripping my hips, my tits, my throat, and riding me through the waves. Letting my cunt clamp down on him, holding himself back, so he’d let me roll with this part-pleasure-part-shock all the way through till the end, when my eyes brimmed with tears.

Only then did he let himself come. Thick, hard squirts deep inside my still-spasming cunt.

Then when my waves of pleasure turned to choking sobs, he held me.

And he didn’t ask why.


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