I can’t be the only one majorly demoralized the moment you realize your partner’s a Quiet Quincy or Silent Suzie. The bedroom door is locked and the house is empty, but their mouth’s still sealed shut like joy is the admission of some terrible secret.
Where’s the energy, the enthusiasm?! I loathe feeling like I don’t affect you. Let me hear you, darling, please?
I feel your chest rise and fall with quick breaths, only the smallest hums and whimpers, and I want to tell you it’s OK. Let go. Enjoy me, this. I don’t need coherence or even full words, in fact, the less the better. I relish the sound of pleasure when it’s ripped from your lips, rough and jagged and real. We’re not kids anymore, this isn’t against the rules — for fuck’s sake, call my name. Call mine and I yours, and let us make music.
