I'm picturing an image from a movie, a surreal world where creatures give off this ooze, like a pheromone, into the air, an airborne Prozac. This stuff draws you to it and feeds your need. You're all irritable until you get it, and then when you do, you suddenly feel there's not a single thing wrong in the whole wide world. In fact: what world?

I'm talking about lovers who cast a spell so strong it gives you lover-addiction. If you've ever had one of these seductive lovers in your life, you know what I'm talking about. When you're in the same room with them, it's like you're on some drug, trancing. You've got that nobody's home look on your face -- the Homer Simpson eating chocolate look. That's how I feel when I'm around Max.

When we make love, Max is slow and smooth, like a snake in the sun. And this airborne ooze that comes from his sexy body -- I can't see it but it pulls me in like sticky webbing. When I'm with Max, I can't wait to press into his skin. I want to throw my hands behind my back and be a gift box for him to open and I can't wait for him to slide my covering off. My skin wants to be naked against Max. My breasts want to be touched by Max. Touch. Touch. That's how he does it, too. Slow, maybe even clumsy, but fascinated, like a baby.

Max actually likes women who are younger than me. Girls, I'd say. It makes me feel old at twenty-nine. Max loves me, of course. But there's a warm, special place in his gonads for nineteen year-old girls -- girl-thin, with big sad eyes and long sad hair. I watch with fascination as he talks to them in a restaurant or coffee shop. It fascinates me with both pain and wonder. The pain is raw, cat-claw jealousy. The fascination is that I know how he feels because I'm so into Max I actually feel HIS fascination inside me for these wan, sad creatures. I think I would thrill to watch him slowly strip one down to her little waif nudeness. My mouth would go dry to watch him set his soft kisses on her pale girl body. She would have virginal skin so translucent you could see the light sketch of her veins underneath. Her mound would have just the lightest fluff of hair -- no shaving needed. And when he touched the lips of her pale moon pussy she would start; she would not be used to feeling a stranger there. I would watch in fascination and I would be hot, getting hotter, and I would burn with jealousy, and I would be a confusion of knotted emotion.

I will lose him to one of these girls someday.

And of course, I'm wet when Max is near -- my juice seems to condense from the heat, rolling like a lust cloud at the opening of my vagina. I can't wait for the moment of skin on skin, his body temperature warms mine. When his bare skin is just inches from mine, the space between us is charged. I like that moment, when his nearness is magic and the frenzied wings of sylphs beat against my nakedness. But I ache to close in on him.

So when I see him with these young girls in the stores, I watch how they respond to him. They blush, they pout, they push out their small breasts. He is not "flirting." He doesn't do "flirting" (about which I could complain). He does "being kind." He has a thing about being kind to everyone. But then certain females stoke his kindness furnace more than others. These wraith-like girls do it. Perky-chested, yet hiding their shapely lines deep within their flannels, their oversized jeans, their low riders. Or like ingénues unaware of how their belly shirts sculpt their muffin-top breasts … really, any way they come is fine with him. And I wonder, can they feel his seductive ooze? That naked pheromone pouring off him, extending out like spider skeins to wrap and pull them into him?

They are the kinds of girls who laugh self-consciously, maybe putting their hands to their mouths, and the laugh comes in shy giggles. And I wonder if his physical closeness, as he whispers at their necks has made something wet drop from their small, firm pussies? Are they too inexperienced to notice the mucus drops groan their way from inside them? Maybe they'll only notice when their thin, shapeless thighs go cold from the dampness.

I will lose him to one of these girls someday. In my mind I parcel out the bits of him they will get and the bits I will keep. I say, even if I lose his lust, I'll still have his loyalty, his love, his need, or some whatever that makes me feel temporarily OK.

Max fucks soft. From his touch to his thrusts, slow and deep. At first he makes me feel as though his dick is licking my vaginal walls. But he works it into a grand slam at the end of every fuck, he slams and shudders as if a damned volcano is forcing up from his underworld. He beats hard against my pussy and I sometimes think his whole body will break through my bones and climb inside me. He acts like the cum takes him by surprise, holding on for dear life; the power makes us both quake.

I wonder, when I finally lose him, when he takes one of those small sad girls, will he let himself explode so batteringly against her child-like pelvis?

As for me, I am not small. I was never very conscious of this fact until Max. I'm strong and tall, like Xena, Warrior Princess, and what's more, I'm successful and independent. I don't wear a timid vulnerability on my sleeve. I'm not even all that sad. I like to laugh hearty and tease, to be loud when I laugh and shoulder punch when I tease. Sorry -- I'm boring you. That's a woman's thing, I know. To go over every little personal flaw, obsessed with my desirability rating, and whining about my low score. Men are lucky. Their shit only kicks in when they have to fuck. But with me, it starts when I walk in the room where Max is nonchalantly lounging.

Yesterday, Max and I talked about the young girl thing again. He doesn't like to talk about it. That's another woman's thing I guess. Talk, talk, talk. Besides, it makes him feel put on the spot. No matter how hard I try not to flash the green eyes.

"I don't mind that you looked at her," I said.

"Yes you do," he said.

"I do, but I don't blame you. I have my own desires, my own natural tastes. Desire comes in our wiring. I know that. Nothing anyone can do about it."

"So let's forget it."

"I want you to know…" I said. I realized I was holding my breath. One part of me didn't want what I was about to say, but the part that was talking was getting off on tormenting the first part. Maybe I'm a weirdo that way, but so I sort of swallowed and continued. "I just want you to know that if you ever get the chance to --"

"Forget about it," he said.

"I mean if you ever get the chance to be with one of those girls --"

"Look, I'm not going to fuck anybody else. So let's drop it."

"I want you to feel free. I want you to know I'm OK with it."

[To be continued...]