As he thrust his cock inside me, I could feel the tickle of his short, wiry pubic hairs on my backside. In, out, in, out. Tickle, relief, tickle, relief.
This is what spooning was to me in my twenties.
It was our go-to position, my lover and I. We'd made some changes; a leg over here, an arched back there, but there's no denying it was spooning, and it was a guaranteed win every time.
But as I nudged closer to my thirties the spoon suddenly shifted its focus. No longer was it the hot and steamy position it once was. Now, it was the warm embrace of my husband, fully clothed, as we lay in bed at night. Spooning meant safety, security. Spooning meant love.
We'd move from side to side. Taking turns to be in front. Pulling each other closer when the temperature dropped. His soft, warm breath kissing my cheek as he exhaled. Left, right, left, right. In, out, in, out.
But spooning had another surprise for me. It wasn't ready to settle just yet.
With the arrival of my sweet baby boy, spooning transformed yet again. No longer was it about heat or passion, or, thanks to many sleepless nights away from my husband with the baby, was it about a warm embrace. I have no doubt these stages will resurface, but for now, spooning became about nourishment, growth and the future, in its purest form.
As baby quickly blossomed his need for food grew stronger. As the months clicked away, he'd finally hit the milestone of solids. Which, by the way, is far from solid. With each spoonful of food I knew I was building the blocks of my sweet child's future. A future filled with strength, love, compassion, kindness and a deep understanding of right from wrong. I knew, even in these early days, that he'd become a man who doesn't spoon and leave, but spoons and stays.
This post was guest written by the minxy Canyon Curtis, a friend and advisor of PAV.
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