Friday, September 23, 2011

Make up sex. Almost the best kind there is.

It's that confusing phase between intense anger and euphoric romance. There are still traces of rage trying to overcome a feeling of senseless pleasure. It fails, of course, because the pleasure is so great you lose yourself. You forget everything but. You try to recall what everything was about, why it all came to be, but you're lost in that spasm-inducing, eye-rolling-to-the-back-of-your-head, ass-clenching, lip-biting pleasure that only he can give you.

Then the pleasure, that glorious pleasure, envelopes your brain, your being, your very soul.

And you can't wait until you fight again.

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