Made myself a proper feast tonight. Jollof rice, fried plantains, a whole fish. Sat down to eat it and just... stared at it. It's stupid, I know. But cooking for one is like talking to a wall. My hands remember how to move, how to make something good, but the joy gets lost in the silence.

It made me think of the things I miss that aren't just about the action. The weight of someone's head in my lap after a long day. The stupid, quiet intimacy of sharing a shower, washing the sweat off someone else's back. The way a man's voice sounds when he's tired and satisfied, not giving orders, just... being.

My body aches for more than just a hard cock, though god knows I crave that too. I ache for the mess of it. For someone to come into my clean, quiet kitchen and kiss me until I forget about the rice burning. To bend me over this counter and fuck me like it's more important than any meal. To leave a handprint on my ass and cum on my tits and then sit at my table and tell me, with his mouth full, that my cooking is the best he's ever had.

I want the noise. The laughter, the moans, the shared silence that isn't empty. This pension bought me peace. But peace feels a lot like a cage.