My love

Why I’m In Love With Carmen Sol

She’s Italian and her smooth moves and vibrancy wooed me from afar. Like most seductive tales, this started with enough mystery to excite me into further discovery.

I knew what she was showing me, but how could I be sure that I would enjoy her the way she promised — especially when I’ve been fucked over more times than I can stand.

I mean, we’ve all been there. You want her so badly, that you can taste it.

You imagine how she will feel when you slide in or sling her over those strong shoulders. Will she feel the warm tingling of recognition, that usually initiates what will happen next, or will there will be emptiness that directs the abruptness of disengagement?

These online affairs can be wretched if you get carried away with the virtual reality of heightened glamor that professes how she doesn’t have to say anything at all to get you wet with anticipation.

Maybe, it’s best to tread lightly, but then she bends over and shows the sweet spot, and before you know it, you’re scoping the arches, edges, ridges, and visualizing how you will handle her in a setting where all eyes will be drawn to how both of you seamlessly collaborate — as if you were made for each other.

Carmen speaks another language, and it’s breathy and catchy, like when you get a whiff of a freshly baked pastry, that contains a fruity addition — running into the golden of the crust.

But it was her looks that coerced me into establishing and maintaining contact, because you can’t just turn away from the beginnings of a potential partnership, even if your scars are still fresh and rotten.

No amount of healing can prevent the inevitable swarming of desire that Carmen Sol prepares, when she emerges on screen, and just stays there, as if she knows how her image fluctuates the temps of weakness and surrender.

I fell hard and I ordered quick.

I tried to forget what I had done, but every night, as I begged the darkness to scare away the trepidation that sickened my rash decision, I fell deeper and deeper into longing and resentment.

I should’ve waited. Why didn’t I take the time that was mine, to ensure that that this relationship would at least survive the summer?

Why do I resort to reviving the old habits of seasonal loves, that break me down when the first chill comes breezing by, and all I’m left with is the cold shell of vows that were never meant to be kept.

Falling in love with a bundle of possibilities is all we can do, in the web of merchandise, that feature the ones that save or kill us.

When she arrived, I was immersed in another collision of hearts and my disposition was too contained to be released.

That was until she peeked through the taffeta of swaddling that secured her sleek template. She didn’t have to utter a word, because she had me at “yellow.”

Everything about her exceeded my expectations, and we immediately slid into each other.

I yelled with shocking ecstasy at how good she felt. I had to pause to catch my bearings as I pondered if I was able to handle another hit of the good stuff without causing a ruckus.

How could I have been so right this time, and so wrong before?

It’s all about the shape of things, and how a perfect fit doesn’t require countless tries that lead to creating what isn’t there — just for the satisfaction of making it count.

I’m in love with Carmen Sol because she had me at “yellow,” and she feels so good. I never knew the first time could be painless and orgasmic. She promised she would. And she did.

And you can too.

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