He.

It has been so long.
Sex.
I lean in towards his neck to gently kiss,
And greeted with a shrug, I sit back.
His scent warms me. His voice nourishes my ears that search and found, and yet.
Frustrated I play with escaped threads on my dress.
I glance at the sheen on my breasts.
I try to divert my attention from my fingertips lightly rubbing against each other over the cotton.
Aroused and longing.
Everything is sensual and appealing.
I can feel my lips parting. I’ve no control.
Saliva will drip.
My vagina exhausted from excitement. And rejection.
Moist lips thirsty and waiting.
How can he not notice?
I have spoken, and pushed, been patient, and forced, and jumped…
But he relaxes distantly. A movie. A beer. Sometimes jellies.
He does not see my shapes. My beauty. The vulnerability sleeping in my eyes.
I am a woman.
I want to make love.

Intimacy is artistic, not scientific. The way you behaved is similar to a guy who approaches a gal out of desperation. It comes off as creepy and without style. There’s also the matter of excessive submission despite initiative. Submissive people are supposed to wait for their masters. If you want to take initiative, then you have to dominate.

Therefore, it’s possible that his ego is in the way. He might be offended from your initiative despite a lack of dominance. On the other hand, he might be afraid to dominate you in spite of your initiative. You can thank feminism for the emasculation of men’s confidence. In their effort to cut men down across the board to size to prevent chauvinism, they cut both badboys and nice guys alike.

Courageous poem.

it’s a realism well told. daktoria don’t mistake a poem for a personal treatise of how things should be. this poem is about what is. for the poet, and it works.

I like it. It’s just an honest expression. No need for relationship advice or poetic critique. It is what it is.

PS: The Gandhi quote in your sig is one of my all time favourite quotes.