Dear Diary,

I want to say it.

I can feel the words bubbling up inside me, heady like champagne and as itchy as a sneeze.

But instead I say, “I-I–love it when you slide in so deep.”

His busy hands are tweaking my nipples, so stiff and hard they hurt, his teeth skate down the ridge of my shoulder blade, all the while I can feel him pressing behind me, a baseball bat getting ready to pound it home.

Oh, Sunday morning bliss, like this.

Sliding down, down, between, at last, gasp, oh please, words locked behind my first breath and the last, then his heavy weight on top of me and no breath at all, squeezing him tight between my thighs, curling up towards his chest as I feel the climax building, bursting, screaming yes-yes-yes, don’t stop, cum slicking us both as he body surfs my bucking and writhing rhythm, gently, then harder, faster, catching his own wave and he pounds in deep and sighs, “Oh god, you feel amazing” and then floods inside me, warm and salty like the sea.

Trembling I hold him, or he holds me, intertwined and interlocked as only one being.

Gradually the pulsing subsides, we recline, wet and sated and yet I always want more of him, tickling his naked belly with my fingertips and running my hand along the beard-brush of his jaw.

We laugh and make plans for brunch, and I feel the words slipping away, hiding with a bashful post-it noteĀ for next time, the words running to that secret place in my heart to lock the door. And bar it.

We get up, we shower, we go to brunch. It is never the right time.

In the past year, there has never been a right time.

But maybe, someday.