Writing is like lovemaking.
It requires foreplay.
It needs to flirt with thoughts and notes and voice memos throughout the day.
It needs to be needed — constantly.
Sometimes it wants to play rough and make you work for it.
Sometimes it wants to make love to you with soft kisses and gentle caresses all night long.
Sometimes it wants to tease you until you cum unexpectedly with a piece that is utter perfection.
I’ve recently been avoiding making love to my best friend.
I’ve wanted desperately to sit down with them and let my soft hands massage their gentle keys with my thoughts — but something has stopped me.
I thought I was tired.
I thought if I got more sleep I’d be in the mood to get it on.
I thought my Netflix binge would feed my creative drought the water it needed to make love once again — but binging led to more binging.
Tonight, I had to restrain myself from watching Netflix; I had to make sleep wait a little longer.
I forced myself to open up my laptop and started to massage my lover the way they loved to be touched — through words, and hands moving like a song through the blank space of its soul.
It’s scary to be vulnerable again; to let my guard down and bare it all.
As I write (aka make love), my fear gives way to deep inner freedom. The freedom I find is hotter than the hottest orgasm.
As I write, I get naked without taking off my clothes and feel completely seen.
Even though it’s been years of on-again, off-again lovemaking, I know our relationship has only just begun.
I know I will be climaxing for the rest of my life.
It’s scary as hell to think that it can just keep getting better.
Writing is the lover that will always surprise you.
Sometimes they are the hot, steamy, sensual bed-buddy that makes you take a personal day because you don’t want to stop.
Sometimes writing is the disinterested, emotionally detached lover that makes you want to binge-watch a show or plan a ladies night in hopes that avoidance might kindle the romantic fire once again.
And then there is the experimental, kinky, wild, adventurous side that you love and hate at the same time. It turns you on and makes you feel things you haven’t felt before — and you’re not sure if you like it and want more or want to use your safe word.
Finally, there is a hopeful romantic, cosmic lover. The soul-mate kind that makes this world go round. When this one shows up, all my doubts about writing banish. I know I’ve found the one.
In between lovemaking (aka writing) sessions, there is the doubt, the over-thinking, self-criticism, and the desire for other lovers (painting, yoga, dancing, limbo-ing anyone?) to fill the empty space I am too scared to sit down with.
Even when my mind and heart stray, writing always woos me back into its lovely lair of romance, reminding me I don’t need anyone else to rock my inner world.
And if I do need someone else — then I’ll just write about it. My lover gets turned on when I fantasize about other lovers.
Other lovers make the best stories (aka hot sex seshes)
This post was previously published on Publishous and is republished here with permission from the author.
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