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Maximilian Alexander Forsberg, thirty-one years old, born and raised in Enskede outside of Stockholm. Works as a salesperson. He is manhood, personified. An Adonis. An Eros. A mountain of muscle. He hits the weights at least three times a week. And two days a week, for his fitness; he runs. He watches football and drinks beer, alternating between laughing and raising his voice with clear, sure shouts to the players – he knows the sport from playing it since he was a kid and has lots and lots of matches, penalties, and corners behind him. He enjoys watching action movies. He listens to indie artists. He eats at least two burgers when we barbeque on our balcony. Sometimes he goes out with friends or co-workers. Now and again he reads a biography about some historic person, often a woman. He enjoys routines, patterns. With me.
Max, few people say his whole name, only if a family member is upset by something he’s stood behind and they didn’t. We’ve been together five years at this point. We met over Tinder. I noticed after a few days of chatting, I use emojis and he didn’t, but something with him still made me believe in this guy. We went out to a bar. It was the first time we met in-person. I instantly fell for him. He wore a black t-shirt, tight over his chest and ripped abs and a pair of fashionable, somewhat bleached ripped jeans. He also wore a pair of white sneakers, seemingly unused. Secure in his style, with clear colours, nothing out of place. He’d used wax to comb his hair to one side, dark as his bushy eyebrows. His eyes, the same shade. His nose was neither big nor small, nor in between. I couldn’t decide, but it stuck with me and that’s what I loved the best. The cheekbones, high. His smile was as sure as his hug when we greeted each other. I drank in the smell of mint, and a cologne that I had registered with several of my fashionable acquaintances. He introduced himself as Max.
One glass turned to two and before the night was over, I was on all fours on my bed in my apartment and was nicely pounded by him from behind. Not only did I cum once, but I came three times that night. I thoroughly enjoyed it and felt blessed with the thought that I’d met him, although his lack of emojis had me doubting. But, I was thankful. My whole body sounding like a fanfare of bliss. I hadn’t been fucked like that in years, that’s how it felt. Even if the last time I’d had sex was some weeks before that. But that guy, a Karl who was too much of a gentleman to relax and let go of inhibitions to let the lust free, was at this point forgotten, he had been a one night stand. It was different with Max. This was the beginning of so much more.
I felt it.
Two days ago, we celebrated our fifth anniversary. Five years. That’s how long we’ve been together. Or, that’s how long it’s been since this date, this first shag – the first time we met. Our relationship works, it really does. I would even say that it’s working well. We know each other’s routines. We laugh at the others’ jargon. We can talk about the big and small stuff. Sometimes we fight, but never too much. We fuck and the sex is good. Absolutely, it’s fine. I can’t say anything else.
But something is missing.
Something that we need, that neither I nor Max has found yet. I have thought long and hard at this point. Tried to understand what it’s all about – what’s missing. Because, as I said, we’re good together. Everything’s good. I shouldn’t complain, really. But the feeling is there. The one telling me the opposite. The one making me realize that yes, I’m lying to myself a little bit after all, consciously or unconsciously. I can’t let it go. There’s something. And no matter how big or small something is, there’s a cloud growing and making my thoughts spread. Making me question every way possible. I don’t want it to be this way. I don’t want everything to be just ‘fine’ between us. I want it to be completely fucking fabulous. I want us to love every day that we’re together. And above all, this has made itself more clear to me as time has passed, I want our sex to be as hot and sparkling as pure magic. I want to fuck, not just until reaching an orgasm, I want to fuck to a total fucking splendour! A firework. A storm. A whole sea of lust and beauty, I want to swim in and lick the juices from both his and my body. That’s how I want it. But Max? He’s traditional. He likes to take me from behind. Sometimes he likes it when I ride him, too. But more than that? No. I’m not blaming him, not at all, you’re always two in a relationship. But the variation, that’s what I’m missing. That’s what we both miss. I really believe so.
We’re stuck in the routines of everyday life. A mundane life. A…life? It shouldn’t have to be this way. Sure, a relationship can change with time, and yet be good. But it shouldn’t have to fizzle out, or have the steam taken from it! I really don’t think so, and I’m convinced that this doesn’t have to be the case. It’s all about courage. Courage to try something new. To have the courage for new emotions, new methods, new…things.
I don’t really know how to talk with Max about this. Not that I think he’ll be offended, no, we talk about most things. However, I still want a concrete option of how we can spice up our relationship. That’s why I start looking. I google and visit webpages telling me about ideas from different sexual positions, Kama sutra, switching locations where you have sex; to other places you usually don’t use for sexual pleasure. New places such as the car, the lawnmower, the hammock, the stairs. The wording is the article, not mine. There are also ideas about roleplaying, games. Something catches my interest. Roleplaying? To be someone else? To dress up and pretend he’s a doctor and I’m his patient…no, that one is not for me. Even less so for Max. But something about changing roles makes me want to read on, gathering more information. I keep googling. I enter sites with both this and that. The ideas relieve others. Lick this way, kiss this way, suck this way. Buy a swing. Have sex in your friend’s bed during a dinner with lots of guests. Yes, the ideas are endless. Sex, the erotic adventure, is an enormous range never seeming to end.
I ponder it for a few days. The thoughts sweep through me, I try to catch them and form ideas that feel both good and concrete, something Max and I would like. Still, I am unsuccessful. Time and time again it reaches me, the inspiration for a good idea, but just as I think I have it – it flies away – gone, somewhere else.
When I’ve already given up. When I’m doing something completely different than thinking of potential ideas of how to enhance our sex life – that’s when it hits me.
Like I said, Max is manliness itself. Sure of his thing. Sure of himself. Sure of his routines. Sure of what he does good, something he rarely departs from. Because that’s his… self-esteem? His pleasure? His safety? And suddenly everything falls into place in front of me. Roles. Roleplay. Manliness. Identity. Pattern. Habits. Everyday. To do what you’ve always done. To be… as you’ve always been.
What would happen if we changed this?
What would happen if I stepped out of my role?
What would happen if Max stepped out of his?