Love letter # 610

I have been a selfish lover. Sorry I did not realise it sooner. I genuinely thought I was being sensitive. Attentive. Inventive. Perhaps to some degree I was, but I see now that the focus has always been on my own pleasure first. In effect, I have not been a fully present partner, and I have made you into an accomplice.

To my shame, I did not see this clearly until last night. Not in your embrace, but later, in the pages of a book. A novel. The narrator made an observation about sex with a new lover, and I knew that I did not fit that thankful description.

But this is not about waking you up with news of my revelation, nor the self-serving show of late-day guilt; it is about you, and why you have allowed it. Is it that you just settled, and that together we drifted, unconsciously, into the rut of my sexual release? Or, ominously, is it that you did not notice? That you too have been elsewhere? In the fantasy head. With another fictional fuck.