It used to be just about the fucking. It was all about my cock in her mouth, her pussy on my face. It was about her taste on my lips, the fingers I couldn't stop smelling on the plane ride home. It was about penetration, thrusting, pounding. It was about the cry from her lips, the look on her face and the trembling of her legs as she let go. It was about the glisten of my cum on her tits, the red throbbing as I pulled out of her. It used to be about that tingling in my ass when I felt myself squirting. It used to be strictly sex, strictly fucking, strictly bodies moving in unison.
I would think all day long about the shape of her breasts, their weight in my hands. I thought about the curve of her ass and how I held on for dear life as she rode up and down on my cock. I thought about the look of glee on her face as I sprayed her with my juice. I didn't think of much else but that. I wrote about it and got off obsessing about it, it occupied my idle mind. The tension would build until I couldn't take it anymore, I know she was the same...but now it is so much more.
Now don't get me wrong, I still think about the fucking often...well maybe more than often, but these days I think about something so much more...something. It happened slowly, kind of like aging, you don't notice it when it's happening but then one day you look at a picture of yourself from days past and think, "look how I've changed." One day I realized I was thinking less and less about fucking her and more and more about just hanging out. I thought so much more about her company, her touch, her voice, the way she looks at me. At first I didn't know how to define it, the thoughts frightened me, us being so far apart and all. It didn't take too long for me to find a name to call it by, the "L" word I struggled to avoid saying, let alone meaning.
This feeling grew in me as the weeks passed and I began to realize I could not be without it. Each hurdle we flew over assured me that she was the one, I could not be without her. But then logic would kick in and ask me how I planned to make this work, how would I get there, how would I live, where would I work? I told her I was coming, I wanted to come and I wanted so badly to believe it, but something inside of me was telling me, "the risk is too great." Something in me wanted this to fail, simply so my life would become easy again...so everything would once again become ordinary.
But ordinary is a curse, a cop out, a denial of the possibility of greatness. Ordinary is what deprives you of everything that makes life worth living. I made a simple commitment to myself, I would not let this thing we have be destroyed by my cold feet.
So I talked to my dad a few nights ago, really drilled it into his head that I'm going and nothing will stop me. I expected an argument, I expected him to come forward with all the reasons why the risk was unreasonable and why it might not work. The truth is, it might not work and it is a great risk, probably the biggest risk I've ever played...a hand with everything in the pot. But I didn't get the argument I had expected, in fact I got an argument I had not expected.
An argument for taking the risk.
He told me there was only one way to know if she truly is the one I am meant to spend my life with...going and finding out. He said the risk of failure is far outweighed by the reward of success, he called it "a noble risk." He told me they would help me as much as they could to make my way out there. "What if," was not a question he wanted his son asking...he told me he had asked it too many times himself.
"Take the risk," he said, "'what if' is a horrible thing to live with."