When a Woman’s in Love

Please note that this story continues where, When a Woman’s in Love: With Another Woman (linked at the bottom) ended almost abruptly. I guess that I wasn’t a happy camper. You don’t have to read the previous part but you’ll miss too much if you don’t. But then, you could always read it afterwards with some hindsight.

I could, of course, have titled it, When a Woman’s in Love With a Man, but the story is more about the woman than the prick, no matter if the prick in question is myself, M. I love this woman you’re going to read about and you’ll understand eventually, if not quickly, that being everything to me, I could only perceive myself as a prick whether in her presence or by myself dreaming of her.

Once upon a time (yes, it can be construed as that type of a story) on planet Earth, the exact location is not important but let’s type for the sake of the story that it took place in Quebec City, about three hours from Montreal. This prick, I mean, M, was a writer of sorts both professionally and for pleasure, preferring the latter given the freedom to write about almost anything. Since his job was home-based even before the pandemic, he could basically work from anywhere with a good Web connection. His boss wasn’t always happy but he did great work, so it seemed to function for the time being.

Carli had been a model in her youth before marrying the usual kind of dick, you know, the regular jealous and possessive prick. She worked as a translator and they had a daughter who eventually got married and left home. About a year later, Carli fell in love with M’s words from his writing-for-pleasure gig. No one in their right mind could fall in love with the medical reports that he wrote for a living. Even M hated them, except for the ones he was writing about cannabis or God’s plant. M fell in love with Carli’s words since their writings appeared on the same platform, some online publishing that was also called M or something similar.

They were living together in Paris for a while after she had left her husband, but M’s work required him to return for some time to Montreal, but they decided on Quebec City given its Capital charm and history. And Montreal, as mentioned before, was only three boring hours away in case he needed to be there. They rented a nice apartment which happened to be again on the seventh floor. He had lived on several seventh floors before and thus the seven seemed to be following him around. He surely knew why. He felt like the luckiest prick in the world to be in love with and be loved by Carli. He worshipped everything about her. He basically considered her his everything. He even wrote some prose about it. I could include a link to it but I think that it’s an important piece of the puzzle that is M. Please note that he wrote her this short email a few months before they finally met and couldn’t part again.

Everything: An Admission

My love, my everything:

That’s it; you’re my everything, and everything includes love. You’re my everything, my love. What more could I say? I think that I said the most important thing there is. The rest of the time, I’ll keep writing you rhymes and sexy stories, pained, of course, that everything between us would still be only words and a few images. Waiting is time flying that we never get back. I don’t know if it’s a good bet with love. Things happen. I can die. It can happen out of the blue or slowly, but that’s not the point. I could survive but you’ll still be elsewhere. So, this relationship will always be platonic with words and images that mean, it’s a little more. You’re my everything even covers what I’ve just said. So, you can forget it. I just wanted to show you what everything means. EVERYTHING for me you are and mean. But why?

Because both my brain and my heart are in love with you, and of course, my sword. Even the Bard must be pissed off. So, this is a short overview of the situation. I may have to start praying with you and eventually commit suicide when a certain number of years begin to look like death. This is poetry, my love. Everything can be said. There are no barriers. God is the word. I love you too much but that’s also part of everything. You could never go wrong when you’re everything. You’ll always be perfect. But I may surely die, but even that is part of everything.

I’m yours. My life is in your hands and your heart.

M

This email had certainly something to do with Carli’s decision to leave her husband and join M wherever he was since she was also madly in love with him. It’s still hard to believe that words strung together in some magical order can bring two people together and from different corners of the world. He loved her from hair to toes. There was nothing about her that he didn’t love. He even found charming her little beliefs that she wasn’t that beautiful and that he was too much in love with her to notice it. Too bad since he would never have accepted to pretend not to love her just to become objective for the sake of finding something imperfect about her. Moreover, he didn’t believe that he could see it even if that imperfection was really there. His love for her annulled anything apparent or not. Carli was perfect. Carli was his everything.

When she looked at him, she immediately saw his love for her shining through his eyes which often teared for no apparent reason. M was simply happy to be able to touch her whenever he felt like it, and it was practically all the time. He was almost like her shadow but not in the sense of taking over her space but complementing it with his love for her all around, never forcing, never assuming, always listening, always ready to give her his love. Carli knew it, of course. She was in love with him as well. She adored him and couldn’t see her life without him. She loved the prick. M doesn’t mind at all being called a prick as long as he can use the word pussy, his favourite word of the English language, anytime he wants to. Oh, he wrote about it too. The word pussy is only second to the word love. He loves pussy. Those two words again.

They moved to Quebec City about a month before the news of the pandemic began to take over the world. They were both healthy, M in his 50s and Carli in her 20s, I mean 40s, and this wasn’t a slip of the tongue since for him she still looked like a model, and she did. M would get an erection just by seeing her breasts. You can imagine what happened when he saw her pussy. He was mesmerized by its personality. Always there, protruding, looking around for some action. No! I was describing the prick. The pussy is a beauty but a famished beast once lovers look at her with love in their eyes. The pussy is prettier than a flower. It’s sexy and it can change its attire. It’s a work of art. Nature was always the greatest artist. We’re mere amateurs trying to capture her grace and intermittent terror. The pussy is the meaning of life. We would never be here without it, literally. We should bow to it. M did when he went down on Carli every day, no matter the time or even the place. It had already occurred twice outside. It was fun but uncomfortable. And he just loved her ass. He could kiss it all day. He was Carli’s ass kisser. But he kissed everything else that she had, having no favourites. He believed in equality for all, except that here, pussy was a god.

What a good god, pussy is. It’s warm, sometimes cozy, sometimes hot and wet, sometimes trying to swallow your prick. It’s an interesting relationship, that of the pussy and the prick. They complement each other like a pair of fancy gloves. Why, fancy? I meant, classy. Why, classy? Show me one thing hotter and cuter than a pussy in love. It’s heaven for as long as you last. M always tried to stretch it until his back gave out. There’s always something to stop you from reaching nirvana, and I mean the real deal with no drugs except for some cannabis dark chocolate to give a different colour to the mood within and without.

Another way in which he loved Carli was that he also dreamt of her. She was there, her skin touching his in all the right places, embraced for the night ahead, and he still dreamt of her. What bliss! He felt complete, with everything, even the universe. He finally knew for sure the meaning of life, namely that the sexual and carnal period of time was the pinnacle of existence. Everything else paled on more than one level. The pussy will always win any argument. A prick will always lose if he’s honest about it. The pussy allows love inside. The prick wrestles to reach that love, to mingle in its glow.

He loved to survey her nakedness when she was asleep. When she was awake as well. But asleep, he could focus on each of her parts without being distracted by the love in her eyes and her mouth. Her eyes could freeze him in place, the love emanating from them acting like a mild sedative of serenity. Her mouth was a masterpiece in progress, forever changing as a response to him and all the stimuli that he was pouring over and in her. He never considered the mouth as an orifice for penetration, except for his tongue and his mouth when he tried to kiss and lick everything inside. She, of course, insisted on taking his prick in her mouth, but he was always unhappy about it, that is until she took him where he couldn’t resist anymore and felt almost helpless as she seized the reign over his prick.

Just writing about Carli made him excited, unable to continue until he kissed her or touched some other splendid part, which could easily lead them to making love. Almost everything they did could lead them to making love. M just loved her skin and everything that it covered and uncovered. Even when she was asleep, he had tears looking at her. His happiness near her had no bounds, overflowing through his eyes and his fingers which longed to touch her at every potential moment. Carli, my love, my everything, he could think at every moment, trying to forget all the months, the days, the hours they went through, suffering and in pain, to be finally together.

When he didn’t want to wake her up from her dreams but needed her love, he would rub his prick against her feet but not before gently kissing each toe, each one its turn with his love, each one loved equally no matter its size in the scheme of things. The soles of her feet he also kissed from toes to heel, trying to imagine all the steps they were part of and instrumental in achieving. Yes, M even loved her feet. And when one loves a woman from her hair to her feet, there’s nothing really to ruin it except for death. But they had time on their side, so they hoped as they made love at every possible opening. Quebec City and Montreal were only background vistas to their constant lovemaking.

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On behalf of M (and Carli), I want to take this opportunity to wish you all a Happy New Year and a future full of love. The freaking narrator!

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