I don’t want to complain. It just happens. I never really ever feel good.

That’s a complaint in itself. So let me do something pretty—for once. I don’t want to talk about ugly things today.

I love to saddle a woman while she’s sitting, gently squeezing her neck as I feel the length of her neck with my lips. I love to feel her pulse beat directly beneath my kisses. She needs to ache for me before I deliver the first kiss on her lips. It can all be very gentle, and it can all be very aggressive. I enjoy a mix of both.

I love the moment when I first see her breasts. It’s always perfect. She’s so vulnerable, then. It turns me on. Our nervousness is part of the fun. Neither of us know what to expect. So much depends on how we’re feeling from moment to moment. Often, we’re desperate—for passion or compassion, for safety or for reassurance. Am I sexy? You think so? No, you’re the one who’s hot. I wish I looked like you. The vain melodrama that we secretly whisper to ourselves plays out. No one judges. It’s time to be honest and shallow and hurt and sheepish. It’s all very beautiful.

I miss that. I want that. Sam, I’m sorry I want Butterfly.