Never thought i’d genuinely take up reading as a hobby, i always enjoyed reading but didn’t do it nearly enough.
But then something just snapped, i didn’t wanna think anymore. I didn’t want to remind myself of the horrible dissatisfaction i felt in the relationship i was in when i took up heavy reading.
And of course, what do i read? Smut. It was easier to indulge in the taboo and raw sexual fantasies of others while my personal relationship and sex life was crumbling before me. Reading helped.
I can stop thinking about my life for 400-500 pages and gain perspective of the fantasies of others. Similar to my own.
The warm pulse that aches between my legs when i read the borderline illegal words of those who share my sexual curiosity and desires, told me that i no longer desired you. And you were never going to desire me the way i wanted you too.
It was too much, felt like a chore to fuck you. It was too much because it wasn’t enough. I was trapped, ashamed of what i wanted - needed, and when i tried to express it to you, you barely tried. And then it was a chore for both of us, not a pleasure.
I never pictured you when i read about cocks forcing their way into hot tight pussies, nipples hardening at the slightest touch of someone you want but shouldn’t. The moans, control, submission, touch, rhythm, passion and the raw euphoria that is expressed by authors through mere words.
It was a hard truth to realize, and as ridiculous as it sounds, i thank smut authors for helping me realize we weren’t gonna fit. We never really did.
You begged me to stay, but i needed to flourish sexually. You had 3 years to help with that, 3 years of me hinting and begging for you to take me the way i needed to be, but again - just a chore.
