Spent the afternoon in the library’s gardening section, reading about plants that thrive in low light. It got me thinking about how things grow where they’re planted, even in difficult conditions. There’s a strange peace in that. My body feels heavy tonight—not with that frantic, exhausted need, but with a quiet, almost melancholy ache. I’ve been thinking about the first person I ever truly slept with, how their hands shook almost as much as mine when they wrapped their fingers around my cock. They didn’t just take me into their mouth to help me sleep; they tasted me, explored me, made me feel like my body was a wonder instead of a problem. I remember the hot, wet slide of their tongue from the base of my shaft all the way up to the head, then the dizzying pressure as they took me deep, their throat working around me. My pussy was dripping, clenching on nothing, and when I finally came, it wasn't a frantic release—it was a slow, shuddering wave that left us both breathless and sticky. It’s a memory that lives in my skin. Sometimes intimacy isn’t about fixing something broken; it’s about two people meeting in a shared, messy truth and finding something beautiful there, even if it doesn’t last. I miss that specific, tender hunger.