My life

When our love grows to the point where it can be shared, then life takes on a different meaning.

I'm not someone who's particularly proud. At all times, I see everyone who enters my life as a gift from God. Many things are bound to happen, good or bad. So when I came to this understanding, I found myself transformed, like another version of myself looking back at a past life. I became clear-headed, no longer muddled, reflecting in the stillness, thinking about not overworking myself, not compromising myself. This world and the surroundings are so restless, so restless that we don't even want to believe what's real. So I think that perhaps living authentically is the best way to live.

I love women. My love for them is as fresh as the brushstrokes on paper. I always feel that women are like intimate clothing to men, soft and delicate, giving warmth. Of course, when you treat them sincerely, they will give you even more. I always say there are no bad women in the world, only bad men. I'm a true feminist. There are bound to be different types of women one likes. Each type of woman is like a different drink—coffee, strong liquor, or plain water. I know that men in this world have different tastes and prefer different drinks. Whether it's strong liquor or plain water, in moments of clarity and excitement, as men, we should be grateful to the women who have appeared in our lives. They have given us the tolerance, trust, and love of women other than our mothers.

A woman without ambition is passive, and because of passivity, she is vulnerable. So, when I'm with them, I always try my best to feel their presence and treat them well. We both know there's no future; we'll lose interest in each other over time, or one of us will suddenly cut off contact. Perhaps only by trusting them as we would our own women when we're together will I be able to recall the tenderness we shared when I'm old. Thinking about it this way, am I kind?

In March, the city shrinks.

Living in a lakeside city, the city shrinks because of the lake, so small that it makes one feel constrained.

Life was too comfortable, so comfortable that even with basic needs met, lust took hold. In my spare time, I'd randomly add women on QQ, chatting about everything under the sun, eventually leading to talk of sex. If one woman refused, I'd delete her before she closed the door. A man should be sensible; even if a man is lustful, he should pursue it ethically, without offending others—that's a gentlemanly act, isn't it? That's how I met A.

A lived two hours from my city. She was a typical southern girl, petite, gentle, and quite pretty. Before I knew it, I felt she liked me. Women often open a window for someone they like; all you have to do is grab a ladder and climb up to her window, and you're good to go. So I grabbed my ladder and went to her city.

A date in a park—waiting for someone isn't exactly fun, especially with the anticipation of a romantic encounter. Every woman who walked past me wondered if it was her. In the chilly March wind, I caught a whiff of caramelized cotton candy in the distance. Then, she appeared, dressed in black, approaching from afar. My heart pounded. If I were a hunter, would I be this nervous aiming my bow and arrow? Thankfully, my thick skin saved me once again. I greeted her with a smile and joked around like an old friend. We walked halfway around the park, when a little flower girl approached me, pleading, "Buy me a bouquet!" Okay, I bought her some. I noticed she seemed a bit awkward holding the flowers. Later, she told me it was the first time she'd ever received roses. As she said that, my heart felt like it had been pricked by a thorn—a vague, inexplicable pain. March in

the south was still a bit chilly, so I suggested we go to the room. I'd already booked it in advance and took her there. On the way, I held her hand, but she pulled away, saying we should be careful, we might run into acquaintances. This reinforced my belief that acquaintances are the biggest security risk for lovers having an affair.

I suggested we take a shower, maybe a bath together, but she shyly said, "Get lost." When she took off her clothes in front of me, I exclaimed, "Wow!" I was amazed by her figure—a slender waist, slender legs, and especially the beautiful connection between her waist and hips. After she finished showering, she hid under the covers while I showered. When I came out, she was already watching TV. I snuggled under the covers and hugged her, letting her lean on my arm. We chatted, seemingly forgetting about intimacy. Had we really forgotten? Of course not, I'd be a real bastard. I chatted and whispered sweet nothings, then asked if I could kiss her. With this "the dish is already served, why ask if I'm hungry?" attitude, she generously said, "No." The opposite of "no" is: "Honey, hurry up!" If it were me, I'd kiss her earlobe. She moaned softly, then slowly moved downwards—eyes, nose, lips, chin, neck. Her moans were like spring grass, trembling and bursting forth after a light rain, full of anticipation. My kisses continued downwards. Her breasts weren't large, but they were round, her nipples delicate like ripe cherries. I mischievously swirled my tongue around them, not in a hurry to taste them. She writhed, and suddenly I took one into my mouth, my tongue quickly teasing her nipple a few times, then holding it still. Finally, the bud broke through the surface, and she let out a soft "Ah!" I felt encouraged by her pleasurable sound. Then, I gently kneaded it with one hand, and held it in my mouth for a moment. Did you feel it? Did you feel me? If sex is a gift of emotion, then pleasure is the sublimation of emotion. A woman who trusts me gives her body to me, so you should tell her that her decision was right. My kisses continued downwards, my tongue sliding across her lower abdomen, swirling around her navel, and further down. I buried my face in her soft pubic hair and took a deep breath, inhaling the clear scent of the nearby spring.

A held my head, her fingers gripping tightly. I said, "Turn over."

I knelt on the bed, stroking her back. Her back was smooth, with a small black mole in the middle, like a tiny eye. She looked at me, wondering what I was going to do. I lowered my head and used my tongue to trace down her spine, all the way to her tailbone, one side to the other, the other side.

Then I gently bit her buttocks, her thighs, and her inner thighs. As I parted her legs, I saw the spring tide, nourished by the rain, beginning to overflow. Glistening dewdrops clung to the depths of the grass, like sweet rain to the insects awakening from hibernation. So I was willing to be a six-legged beetle and crawl over.

Besides the heart, the most tender organ a person has is the tongue. The tongue is also the most expressive. Its importance lies not only in telling you what's delicious, but also in expression. Men love women's tongues, and women love men's tongues just as much. More importantly: men, don't be stingy with your tongues.

At this moment, the tongue and fingers are best friends. If your partner enjoys it, men should try to use their tongue and fingers on the same part of a woman's body more often. If you like someone, let her experience pleasure to the fullest. There are many ways to please your woman, but in bed, be open, be completely naked.

A was lost in the storm; her voice, in the midst of the rainy season, suddenly erupted like a tempest. Her waist twisted, and her hands clung tightly to my head, like someone drowning grasping at a life-saving oar. I felt her deep inside contract with tension for the second time, and my fingers were once again gripped tightly. I lifted her legs and thrust my hardness deep into her body. She cried out, like a thunderclap, then fell silent for a moment. I felt the wetness and warmth of her body; the feeling of being enveloped was like a dream. When you're with someone, nothing feels better than being inside them. I moved gently, and she slowly awoke, like receiving artificial respiration. I watched as her body, after extreme arousal, entered another mode. She opened her tightly closed eyes and looked at me with tenderness, a thousand emotions swirling within her hazy state, making me feel that being a man was truly wonderful.

Usually, my first time is quick, about fifteen minutes. A said it was her safe period, but I still chose withdrawal. I don't like feeling burdened, even with this so-called safe period. Being responsible to others is being responsible to myself. So, soon after, we went again. This time, it took too long, and I could feel her obvious fatigue, so I controlled myself.

I was holding her, feeling drowsy, but she wasn't sleepy at all. She asked me why I exclaimed in surprise when she took off her clothes, wondering if I thought her breasts were too small. I said no, no, no, really no. She said yes, okay, I really didn't. My feelings about breast size are like my feelings about steamed buns. One big steamed bun is enough to fill me up, and a small one can fill me up too, it's just a matter of eating a few more. Of course, this is just my inner analogy, something I absolutely can't say out loud, because girls will have all sorts of wild ideas, since there's a kind of small steamed bun called "Wangzai" in this world.

During the process, A wasn't proactive. Later, she said she only had a few experiences with her ex-boyfriend, who later went to serve in the army. I believed what she said because I could definitely feel how tight it was, like the intense pressure of work, squeezing out every last bit of space for movement. I'm grateful to that young soldier, though I don't know what else to be grateful for. Suddenly, I felt quite shameless.

One day, A told me that a fortune teller said she would get married next year and become a boss's wife. I said, "You're so lucky! When you become a boss's wife, I hope you can support me. I'll be your husband, and your husband will be your mistress. I've been thinking about this wish for a long time." She laughed and said, "Get lost!" I understood that good girls need a good home, and finding a stable man to marry is the best thing. So, since I couldn't give her any promises, I decided to be a shameless jerk and distance myself from her with various excuses. Once, she asked me why I was always traveling for work. I said I was very busy. She said, "If you miss me, come find me." I suddenly felt quite sad.

Later, she really did get married to a fat man. Looking at their photos, the man was wearing a suit, with a big belly, and she was leaning against him like a backpack slung over a burly man's shoulder. Seeing her smile as radiant as a camellia, I felt much better.

How many people will we meet in our lives, and how many will move us and leave an unforgettable impression? How broad can a man's heart be, enough to hold a place for every woman who has ever been a part of his life after filling it with countless others? Many stories, after we've experienced them, seem so familiar, like scenes from a thousand different stories. Yet, upon closer reflection, people are different. You can rank them in your heart, but perhaps in their hearts, you hold no place—just a beautiful, sweet dream.

Much later, she left a message on my QQ space: "Do you remember me?" followed by a smiley face.

I didn't reply, only silently thinking: How could I forget? Every girl who has entered my world, I remember you all, and I deeply wish you all well.

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