Perhaps the last bit of creative writing you'll see from me

So, I've been fiddling about with this creative writing for a while now. It comes in fits and starts - more fits recently - and this whole "bien aime" business has gotten a bit stale. So, I'm fictionally saying goodbye to him. I had this strange epiphany about it at Target the other day when I was trailing Miss Peanut around the dollar section, watching her select bits of cheap tat on which to spend her allowance and thought that, you know? it was really time to be done with this.

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Crying doesn’t help. It doesn’t take away the humiliation, the feelings of failure and inadequacy, or the helplessness you feel at being unable to smile. Crying doesn’t remove that nagging ridicule gleefully dancing a malicious flamenco on your psyche with its pointy stiletto heels. Crying resolves nothing, fixes nothing, and helps no one.

Finger-pointing is equally unproductive. After all, I am the only person in the room. I am the guilty one: guilty of prolonging the affair long past its viability; of placing more value on it than it deserved; and of assuming too much about my place in his life. Granted, I didn’t act alone, but there is no one but me who can take the blame for my actions.

I was the one that initiated our trysts. I was the aggressor. I sought him out when I felt lonely, and hinted, intimated, slowly seduced him into my arms. If he had qualms, I crushed them. I inveigled and invited, drawing him to me with promises of pleasure. What he needed to hear from me, I willingly told him, though, in my heart, I didn’t always mean it. I schemed for this man. I had to have him. And, for a short while, I did have him.

I loved sliding my arms up his back while I kissed him, feeling my neck stretch as I tipped my head back for his lips to join with mine. Feeling so small, so tiny, next to his tall strength was a gift I’ve never before had. I would breathe in his scent – spicy, fresh, male – as I dropped kisses on his chest and feel intoxicated by it. The softness of his lips as they twisted with mine made me shiver with need, and the silken swipe of his tongue anywhere was enough to raise gooseflesh.

Later, pulling groans from him as I used my mouth to tease his proud member or sheathing him inside me to ride astride, I would feel triumphant, powerful. He filled me completely, with not a fraction to spare. Pushing, grinding, swirling my hips produced twin moans from us both. His strained exhortation to slow down would drive me to use my hand to gently massage my own proud flesh so that we could finish together. Rocking slowly, incrementally, I teased myself with him, loving the friction and his sheer size, waiting for the moment when I felt the wildfire begin to coalesce at my knees. Streaking its way towards the point where my hand would be working, it bathed my whole body in its fulminating warmth. Stars exploded behind my eyes as I collapsed, helpless, on his chest where his final shout still reverberated.

But no more do we meet. No more do we talk. All communication is ended, and I am bereft. Our orbits, which once intersected, are now completely separate. Part of me feels discarded, left behind, destroyed. The greater part of me, though, feels resigned and calm, even. That is the part of me that believes that I can move on from this. That I can learn from it. That someday, I will no longer be sad that this part of my life is over, but will instead smile because it happened.