I don’t want to have sex with you.
I don’t find pleasure in it at all. The wet kissing, the touching, the banging, and all? Fine, but these things only satisfy the beast in me. Nothing less, nothing more. There’s no real connection, only physical attraction. Sex is for the weak. I’m not weak.
I don’t want to make love to you either.
Making love is for hopeless romantics. I’m not comfortable with it a bit. The slow moving, the passionate kissing, the tender caresses, the affirmation of love after sex? Fine, but these things make me hold on tight to the idea of us.
When we make love, everything’s just too much. There’s fire, and fire always seems a bad thing. Fire can ignite us, but it can also destroy us. Lovemaking is for passionate people who believe in forever. I believe in love.
Kiss me, caress me, fuck me all you want—hard or gentle, I don’t give a fuck.
But I won’t have sex with you, much more make love to you. I want to lie beside you and hear words of affirmation, but don’t promise me that this will last.
That’s the thing with lovemaking—it makes you look forward to another day. It makes you look forward to spending your lives together forever. It makes you hope for more. And sometimes, there’s nothing more. Sometimes, the night is all you’ve got.
I don’t want to make love to you not because I am weak, but because I believe.
I can be as passionate as the most passionate lover, I can stay up all night doing nothing but sex, but I won’t hold on to those moments and act as if they’re bound to last.
I won’t make love to you not because I don’t love you, but because I want love to make us.
If it’s meant to be, I won’t have to worry. If we’re meant to be together, we don’t need to promise each other forever. Let our love lead the way. I won’t have it any other way.