I'm not sure I should even write about this, but it may be too epic of an occurence to leave unrecorded.

For several years (I think he said eight), no woman has been able to bring B to orgasm. He's been forced to finish himself off every time for that long. He has said it is a curse stuck on him for being a dickhead.

That stopped last night. Before he could pull out or get me to stop, he came.

Slightly.

So. Yeah.

I'm just going to take a moment to say I've only been in two relationships apart from this one. One was probably too serious for us to be that young, and the other was a lovely little fling. This is the kind of relationship a younger, more fanciful me would've written poems about. I've outgrown that phase, or outgrown my creativity having to do with anything but prose and visual art, and am forced to be content to express these feelings physically.

This is the actual reason I am so irritated with art lately. B's and my relationship makes me want to create something celebratory, something to properly honor the emotion I feel, but there isn't a single metaphor, in any medium, that does it justice.

In closing, if you don't think I'm an asshole yet, don't miss the previous entry.