His Steelers lost.

We had a deal. He was going to go do “guy’s night” and watch the game and get drunk. I asked that he make sure he was sober enough to enjoy some sexy times after with me, either in celebration or in comfort.

He came to me and buried himself in me. Hands roaming everywhere. Touching my body, grasping me, pulling me tight to him, then leaning away to look at me. Trying to touch and admire every part of me at once.

“I’m sorry I’m not really focused on your pleasure,” he said, “I just can’t get enough of you. I need you. I want to do this.”

There are times—most times, in fact—when it is all about him giving me pleasure. Focused on me, and what I want. Paying attention to every small shudder and sigh, moving his mouth and hands on me as if he knows exactly what he’s making me feel.

And then there are times like Sunday night.

When he takes his pleasure, and it’s me. When he desires, and it is me. When everything good in that moment is me, and he can’t get enough.

It’s not a sophisticated stroking of my flesh, or charming of my nerves. It’s not all of me, wrapped into a spiral of pleasure taking me higher and deeper. It’s something just as powerful, just as amazing. In some ways, it’s even greater.

It lacks artifice or veneer. It’s raw emotion and need.

He is being 100% utterly selfish, doing exactly what he desires, and I am at the core of it all.

He was not focused on pleasing me, and yet… He did in ways he may never understand.

And in that moment, I understood how to explain something that has been rattling around in my head, about how a lot of learning to truly please others is really about finding how to please ourselves.