The Day She Took Control — A Memory He'll Never Forget | Edited by: Roselyn A. St Claire.

After years of marriage, I’d sometimes catch myself asking if what we had was real love or just a contract we both signed under pressure. We had a home, some stability, and a rhythm—but the sex had always been flat, almost obligatory. And in the back of my mind lingered an old doubt: she hadn’t been faithful when we met, so had she ever really been mine?

Funny thing is, our paths always seemed to cross. Jogging track. Supermarket aisle. Even near my workplace. Like the universe was determined to keep us bound together. Eventually, marriage just… happened. Not from fireworks, but from a checklist. She wanted boxes ticked; I provided the pen. But my heart never stopped scanning the exits.

And at work? Flirtation lived in the air. Nothing serious—until her.

She wasn’t much younger, but she carried herself with a kind of quiet fire. The way her eyes lingered. The way her hips moved when she walked past my desk. I’d glance, she’d catch me, and instead of being offended, she’d tease:
“You like what you see?”
“Hell yes,” I’d shoot back.

That was our rhythm for months—playful, harmless, or so I told myself. Until the day she asked if I was heading to lunch.

We strolled, browsed shop windows, and landed at a small restaurant. She laughed when she realized she hadn’t brought cash. I waved it off, told her I had it covered. The smile she gave me—part gratitude, part invitation—stuck with me long after.

Weeks later, she called on my day off. No agenda. Just: “Wanna hang out?” I said yes without thinking.

When I opened the door to her, something shifted. She was in a cropped workout top and skin-tight leggings that left little to imagination. Still, sex wasn’t on my mind. Not at first. But when she lay across the small bed in my office, biting her lip, I knew.

The kiss started slow, almost cautious. Then deeper, hungrier. My hands slid beneath her shirt, fingers brushing nipples already taut. Her bra was flimsy—gone in a heartbeat. She moaned when I sucked her breasts, and for the first time in years, I felt alive in someone’s touch.

Her tights fought me like armor, but I peeled them away, kissed her soft mound, and breathed her in. Her legs fell open like she’d been waiting all day. I went down on her, slow, steady, tasting every tremor as she came against my tongue. Twice, maybe three times.

Then she surprised me—pushing me back, eyes locked. “My turn.”

She freed me from my belt and wrapped her lips around me, deliberate and unhurried until my body begged for release. I reminded her I had no protection. She shrugged: “Bareback. I’m good.”

Her confidence lit a fuse in me.

When I slid into her, it wasn’t just sex. It was escape. Tight, warm, wet—her body welcomed mine like it had been waiting forever. She moved with me, not under me. Matched my thrusts. Claimed me with her moans.

When I warned her I was close, she pulled me deeper, whispering: “Finish inside me. I already took care of it.” Plan B, she explained. Hours ago. Like she’d known where this was heading.

I came harder than I had in years, buried in her, shaking, undone. She didn’t stop—flipped me, rode me with intent, placed her breasts in my mouth, and came with a cry that left us both collapsed and laughing in the silence after.

We showered together, steam and soft jokes filling the space. It wasn’t our last time, but it was the one that branded itself on me.

After that, things blurred. Skirted Sundays at work turned into stolen oral sessions in quiet corners. One wild afternoon, we drove to Jabberwock Beach, fogging up the car with our sweat and nerves.

She always led. I followed into something reckless, intoxicating, and too good to deny.

Even now, years later, if I close my eyes, I can still taste her. Still feel the shift in that moment—the line between loyalty and desire snapping in two.

---

Original Story by Herman Kingsley

Part Two: Behind the Curtain | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

Part Two: The Exam Room and Everything After

By late morning, I learned why the day was dragging—two nurses and two doctors had called in sick. No wonder the wait was endless. Nearly five hours after I arrived, I finally heard my name.

When they said, “Rose St. Claire,” I had just enough energy to unplug my charger, toss my things in my handbag, and shuffle to one of the few private rooms near the nurses’ station.

A few minutes later, a bearded man in glasses walked in. Let’s call him Dr. Ben. He listened closely as I described my symptoms. When I mentioned the urine test, he smiled gently:
“No, Ms. St. Claire, you’re not pregnant.”

I exhaled hard. Thank God. The thought of another ectopic ordeal was more than I could bear.

With pregnancy ruled out, we still needed answers. I described the pain in my lower abdomen wrapping to my lower back on the left side. He asked about fever, blood in stool or urine, vomiting—none applied. He decided to do a vaginal exam and went to get a nurse.

He handed me a gown and a blue pad (yes, those ones that look suspiciously like old-school cloth diapers). I climbed onto the exam bed, removed my underwear, and waited.

They returned. The nurse stood silently while Dr. Ben used a plastic speculum—thank goodness the heavy metal ones are retired. He followed with a finger test and, based on my discomfort, ordered an ultrasound.

Dr. Ben wrote the referral and personally escorted me to radiology, even stopping by to brief the technician. I was told to drink fluids, so I downed the rest of my juice and waited.

The Cuban technician from Guantánamo greeted me warmly, and we traded a few words in Spanish. She took her time—over twenty-five images from every angle. As I left, I spotted the printouts laid out like Polaroids. She said the doctor would get the results and sent me back to the ER.

A nurse came to draw blood—“Perfect veins,” she said, prepping like she might start a drip. Then another nurse approached with a second needle. I held up my arm, tubing still in place. “Nah,” she said, “this one’s for your thigh.”

Excuse me? Apparently, the first needle was too thick for my arm. I braced myself and took it like a big girl.

Back in the ER, I waited as results trickled in. Around me, chaos continued—an army vet accused staff of racial bias, others complained about being skipped. A mini staff meeting was underway too; judging by the tone, not everyone had been pulling their weight.

Finally, Dr. Ben returned: fibroids and ovarian cysts. That explained the pain. It could have been other things, but we’d ruled those out.

By 4:30 p.m., I was discharged—tape and tubing removed, prescription in hand. It took another stretch to get through the cashier and pharmacy, but by the time I had my meds, the relief outweighed the frustration.

Cost? Five US dollars.

---

Final Thoughts

Ladies, get your physicals. Don’t ignore unexplained pain. Fibroids and cysts are more common than we think, and they don’t always shout for attention. Advocate for yourself. Ask questions. And when your body speaks—listen.

It might just save you… even if it means an eight-hour shift in triage.

---

Part One: Triage and Truths | By Roselyn A. St Claire

If you’ve ever sat in a hospital waiting room for hours, you know the feeling—time slows, patience thins, and you start bargaining with yourself: If they call my name in the next ten minutes, I swear I’ll stop complaining.

That was me on a Monday morning at the University of St. Bart’s Medical Centre.

Before I even left home, I’d asked my Google Assistant, “What does the word triage mean?”
He replied: “Triage is the process of prioritizing patients based on the severity of their condition, especially in hospital emergency rooms.”
Thanks, Gemini AI. Foreshadowing much?

It had been years since I last set foot here—back when it was MSBMC. I debated following local wisdom: Get there early to beat the rush. But in St. Bart’s, with one main hospital, there’s never a “good” time to go.

Still, I made it by 8:30 a.m.

For most working-class folks, the hospital is the only option. Private doctors start at USD 75, and depending on the name on the door, that number climbs fast.

When I arrived, the waiting area was nearly full. I gave my name, number, and date of birth. Standard stuff. Then I sat, watching the room fill with coughing, sighing, and silent patience.

Around 9:30, I heard my name. Finally, I thought. Silly me—it was just triage. A nurse in blue scrubs took my blood pressure, asked a few questions, then handed me a plastic cup for a urine sample. I followed instructions, returned it, and went back to my seat.

By 12:36 p.m., I’d finished a book, eaten my snacks, charged my phone behind my seat, and quietly observed the slow build of frustration. Some people had been there since 4 a.m. The cursing started. I thought, WTF. When will I get seen? I have rehearsals later. That’s when I started writing this.

---

The Waiting Room: A Character of Its Own

If you’ve never experienced a Caribbean hospital waiting room, picture this: strangers becoming comrades in discomfort, united by boredom, pain, and impatience.

I kept to myself. The man next to me sipped hot tea. We shared hours of silence. He tried conversation once or twice, but my body was speaking a language I didn’t understand.

Triage isn’t a straight line—it’s a living puzzle. Someone with chest pains goes before someone with a sore toe. One man, furious, announced he’d been there since 7 a.m., his leg too swollen to fit in a shoe. He hadn’t seen the seven ambulances arrive while we were waiting.

He ranted about his army and police service, his taxes, and how he “deserved better.” And maybe he did. Maybe we all do. But triage doesn’t care about résumés—it cares about urgency.

---

By 1:58 p.m., I was finally called.

Dr. Ben—a soft-spoken, bearded gentleman with streaks of grey—handled my case. Questions, observations, and a physical exam. My urine test came back negative. No pregnancy—thank God.

Then came the vaginal exam and finger test. Professional, thorough… and never my favorite. That’s when I remembered what my gynecologist had once mentioned: small fibroids. Now, they seemed to have company—possible ovarian cysts.

The ultrasound that followed was the longest I’ve ever had. But thorough. And for that, I was grateful.

---

Educating the Public

The issue isn’t always staff not caring—it’s that patients don’t understand how care is prioritized.

Yes, you’re in pain. But so is the person next to you. And the man in the ambulance. And the woman delivering her baby.

Behind the curtain, nurses and doctors juggle nonstop decisions—who to see first, which tests can wait, which results are urgent. They’re under immense pressure. And they’re human.

What if we Googled “triage” before we complained? What if we asked a nurse to explain the system? What if we noticed the twelve-hour shifts they endure?

Today, all I could do was wait, watch, and wonder:
How many patients were treated? How many left unseen? How many, like me, learned that fibroids and cysts can creep up quietly?

---

Coming Next: Part Two – The Exam Room and Everything After

I thought the hardest part was the waiting. But behind a closed door in a quiet exam room, I learned the real journey was just beginning. From unexpected tests to quiet revelations, Part Two dives into what happened after they finally called my name.

Because sometimes, the answers we don’t expect… are the ones our bodies have been whispering all along.

|| Red Flags & My Silent Heartbreak || By Roselyn A. St. Claire

🚩 You know how sometimes, after the fact, you wish you had a clear list — a handbook of what not to do?
Like a warning label across someone’s chest that says:
Here are my absolute red flags — cross at your own risk.

Well… I crossed the line.

We never sat down and listed our deal-breakers. We should have. Because what felt like a sweet, innocent gesture on my part — showing up unannounced — turned out to be one of his top three sins.

Let me list them now, for the record:

• Arriving without notice

• Revealing personal matters publicly

• Taking items without permission.

🌙 That evening, I committed one of the crimes 

I was missing him. Long day. Quiet house. Full heart.
So I did something I’d never done before:
I drove over to his house — no text, no warning. Just me, showing up.

The irony? I hate it when people do that. I’ve literally ignored people honking outside my door. But this time, I was the one acting on impulse.

And it didn’t land well.

🔇 The Morning After: Silence, Stories, and Subtle Withdrawal

Despite his disappointment, he never raised his voice. He didn’t scold me. But he told me stories.
Stories with an edge.

About a man who once showed up at his gate. He fired a warning shot from his porch steps.

About a woman whom he briefly dated who stole money. He didn’t confront her. He just cut ties.

The mood as he told me these stories? Cold. Unfiltered. Purposeful.

They weren’t just stories. They were cautionary tales.

💔 And Then… He Pulled Away

The next few days were hollow.

No warmth. No laughter. Just polite replies and dry calls.
He had pulled back. And I felt it in my bones.

He traveled the following week to Las Vegas for an IT conference.
We didn’t speak before he left. No goodbye. No "see you soon."
I tried not to panic. But inside? I was spiraling.

Was this how it ended?

📞 The Call That Made Me Breathe Again

After he returned, a few days passed. Then... he called.

His voice.
That calm, thoughtful voice I’d missed so much.

And just like that, my heart exhaled.

He missed me. He needed space to reset. We had moved fast — the chemistry had been intense. He had to step back, reorganize his thoughts, his heart.

And I understood.

❤️ Final Thoughts: His anger wasn’t loud — It Was Quiet
Silent pain. Emotional withdrawal. Reflection.

This was our first lovers' spat — and it wasn’t about raised voices. It was about boundaries. About recognizing what matters to someone else. About unspoken rules that, once broken, can shake a fragile connection.

But we’re still here.
He came back. And that matters more than anything else.

I missed him.
And he missed me, too.

J'ouvert.... in Plain Sight | Retold By Roselyn A. St Claire

She told the story like someone unwrapping a keepsake—slow, smiling at the memory before the words even formed.

“We weren’t together,” she began, swirling the ice in her glass. “But for those few hours, it felt like the road only existed for the two of us…”

I didn’t arrive with him.
But I knew he’d be there.

He’d mentioned a few days before: ‘I’m playing with your band this year.’
And just like that, J’ouvert promised more than the usual powder, paint, friends, rum, music. This year, it had him.

I saw him before he noticed me—posted up near the speaker truck, bass thumping through his chest. I walked right up behind him, gave his left ass cheek a quick squeeze, caught his eyes, smirked, and kept walking like it never happened.

He smiled.
That quiet, caught-off-guard smile that said, So this is how we’re starting the morning?

From there, we floated in and out of each other’s space. We weren’t glued together—that’s not how we move. I stayed with my crew, flinging powder, laughing loud, waistline on autopilot. But I kept him in sight. Like a compass. Or a secret I didn’t want the crowd to swallow.

Once or twice, from across the paint-slicked madness, I flung him kisses.
He caught them all.

When we finally crossed paths again, he asked, “You good dancing with me?”
I grinned. “Only if you’re good being seen dancing with me.”

It was never vulgar. It didn’t need to be.
It was sweet.
Intentional.
The way he held me felt like something promised between beats.
He didn’t pull. He followed.
He didn’t lead. He listened.

We swayed in rhythm—not just to the music, but to each other.
He stayed near the speakers—where the bass rattled deep in your chest—and I stayed with him. Pressed close. Moving slow.

Sometimes I drifted off into the chaos. Sometimes he did. But it was all part of the game. Being close enough to feel each other’s heat, just far enough to keep it ours.

He danced with others. Took photos. I did the same.
But every time we found each other again, it felt like a soft return.

The most intimate moments didn’t shout.
They lingered.

No labels. No hiding.
Just two people playing in plain sight—
Sensual. Untouchable.
And, somehow, perfectly ours.

---

Crossing the Lines | Original Story By Herman Kingsley | Edited By Roselyn A. St. Claire

                                                              Image by SoraAI

There are certain—and quite a lot of—unwritten rules in life that you never try to cross. But we’re human. And sometimes curiosity, temptation, or timing leads us to break the very codes we swore we’d never even bend.

Certain connections were made when my child attended preschool, and some of those friendships continued well beyond those early years. One day, during a casual conversation with a fellow parent-turned-friend, she asked if she could float me a few personal questions. I said sure, not thinking much of it.

I never expected her to ask if I’d ever been unfaithful—and how many times.

I told her the truth. I’m no angel, and if she wanted the full story, I wasn’t hiding anything. What happened next caught me completely off guard. Seconds after that confession, she sent me a set of explicit selfies—her chocolate brown body on full display. She looked good. No—she looked damn good. Perky breasts. Smooth skin. And every inch of her was enticing. I won’t lie, my interest was piqued. Of course I’d thought about sex. But this was different. We were both married. The stakes—and the taboo—were already sky-high.

She lived down south, so my ideal scenario was to get a hotel room somewhere nearby and let her come by as a guest. She agreed. We picked a simple weekday. Off-season. Quiet hotel. Minimal eyes. Maximum privacy.

I checked into room 225 and sent her a WhatsApp with the details. An hour later, I heard a knock. And there she was.

She walked in casually, dressed in a light summer dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. Just enough makeup to enhance what was already working. I welcomed her in. She sat on the bed. I sat in an armchair. We chatted for a bit, but I couldn’t help but notice she wore no bra—and based on how she shifted, no panties either. She had come prepared.

After a few deep sighs and glances at her watch, I asked what was wrong. She said time was limited, and we should get started.

She lay back, and I climbed on top of her, slowly moving up to her lips and kissing her softly. She smiled under my kiss as my hands roamed her body. I slid her dress up and over her head, folded it neatly, and set it on the side of the bed. I asked what she wanted first.

"Oral," she replied.

“Sixty-nine or just me between your legs?”

“The latter.”

I spread her thighs wide and went down on her like a man possessed. She held my head between her legs and rolled her hips into my face, clearly enjoying it. Her taste, her scent—everything was intoxicating.

Feeling her lose herself in it, I turned the heat up—sucking, nibbling, pulling on her clit until her moans filled the room. I slipped two fingers inside her, then brought them to her lips. She sucked on them hard, whispering how sweet she tasted. I agreed.

Moments later, she asked me to enter her.

I moved up slowly, licking my way along her body, stopping at her breasts—sucking each one before she reached down and guided my cock inside her. She took a deep breath and held it until I was fully inside. Then she exhaled.

“Do it hard,” she said softly, “but passionately.”

I didn’t hold back.

I pounded her with intensity and purpose. She said she liked it rough. And it showed. Her body responded to every stroke. We went at it for nearly twenty minutes before I asked if she’d come.

“Many times,” she said breathlessly.

I held back my own climax as long as I could—fearful someone might hear us—but eventually, I couldn’t stop it. I told her I was coming, and without hesitation, she sat up and took me in her mouth, sucking every last drop. I held her head gently as the sensitivity kicked in. When she finished, she smiled.

“That was good,” she said. “We should do this more often.”

And we did.

Different hotels. Secluded beaches. Empty parking lots. The pleasure was one thing, but the secrecy—the thrill of hiding—took it to another level. Every time, the risk made it hotter.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. On paper, it crossed every line we claimed to respect: friendship, marriage, parenting circles, trust.

But the thing is… sometimes the lines blur. And when they do, you don’t always step back. Sometimes, you cross them—eyes wide open.

_______________________________________________

Closing Thought:

Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed—but desire doesn’t ask for permission. It creeps in, challenges your morals, and dares you to taste what you swore off. And once you do, there’s no going back to pretending you’re above it. You’re not. You’re in it. And every time after that, it gets easier to forget where the line ever was.

The Wedding That Was… and Wasn’t” | Guest Contributor: Herman Kingsley - Edited by Roselyn St. Claire

It was supposed to be a marriage made in heaven. But behind the scenes, the story was anything but sacred.

Months before the ceremony, a mutual friend confided in me: he’d been asked to be best man at an upcoming wedding. The groom was excited, the bride glowing. Everything seemed perfect—on paper. But as the date approached, shadows started creeping into the picture.

This bride-to-be had a reputation—a quiet one, but well known in certain circles. She had a way of getting close. And a few of my friends had already gotten close… intimately. So when she started flirting with me, I brushed it off at first. Harmless banter. Casual conversation about life, work, her child, her future husband. Then came the shift—subtle, but unmistakable.

Her tone changed. Her texts grew flirtier. She opened up about her doubts, her dissatisfaction, her craving for one last wild ride before settling down. She wanted to feel something—anything—other than what she was pretending to feel walking down that aisle.

Then came the day.

I was home, off from work, when she passed by unexpectedly. She said she noticed my car and wanted to check if I was okay. I told her I wasn’t feeling 100%, and she offered to “chill for a bit” before heading to work. An hour later, she showed up—fresh from a shower, skin glowing, wearing that unmistakable scent of someone who knows they’re being watched.

She complimented my home. Said a man like me shouldn’t be alone in a place like this. We sat, we snacked, we talked. And somewhere in the quiet rhythm of conversation, she told me plainly: “I’m not in love with him. I just feel sorry for him.”

There was sadness in her voice. But also desire. And when I hugged her—out of what I told myself was comfort—she didn’t let go. Her hand found its way under my shorts. And just like that, a line was crossed.

She closed the curtains. Removed her top. The kind of body that made you question all your good judgment. I tried to resist—tried to remind her (and myself) that this was her fiancé’s friend. But resistance disappeared when her lips found mine, and her breasts pressed against my chest.

What followed was a mix of intensity and disbelief. Oral so masterful I forgot we were supposed to be making good choices. She warned me she was ovulating. I told her I had no condoms. She hesitated… then gave me the green light. Just don’t finish inside her, she said.

I didn’t listen.

And she didn’t stop me.

From that moment on, the affair escalated. More visits. More sex. No guilt—at least, not at first. And then came the big day. The wedding.

I wasn’t invited. Rightfully so. We weren’t friends like that. She… well, she was otherwise engaged. Literally.

But that morning, she came to my house again. Hours before the ceremony. No bra. No panties. Just a flowing summer dress and a sinful smile.

She said, “lets do something we've never done."
I laughed in disbelief.
And then, we did.

She told me to do whatever I wanted. Her wedding dress was hours away. Her husband-to-be was clueless. Her moans filled my house like they always had—loud, hungry, unashamed.

We made love again. In the shower. On the bed. She begged me to finish inside her—said she wasn’t showering, wasn’t washing my scent off. She wanted to carry the odour, the memory, the residue of me underneath her wedding gown.

And I let her.

By the time her entourage rang the doorbell to prep her for the ceremony, we were still tangled in bedsheets and unresolved feelings.

She left my house with traces of me dripping down her thighs… and vows waiting at the altar.

---

Closing Thought

Some stories are hard to tell. This is one of them.

I wasn’t in love with her. And maybe she wasn’t in love with him. But what we shared in those stolen moments was real—raw, selfish, complicated.

Do I regret it? Sometimes.
Would I change it? I don’t know.

But I do know this:

Not every “I do” is honest.
Not every wedding is sacred.
And sometimes, love stories start… and end… in all the wrong places.

A Tune Up & A Slow Burn | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

                                                                   Image by SoraAI
                                                    

Earlier this week, I got creative with a message to Mr. Digs— a flirty nudge in a car metaphor.

“My car needs servicing, and as far as I know, you’re the mechanic on staff. Unless you want me to hire a new one, you need to make an appointment to service my engine. Please and thanks.”

It got the reaction I was hoping for. He found it hilarious. With both our schedules being ridiculous, we settled on Friday evening.

He was on my mind all day. I hadn’t seen him in a bit, and I felt the pull.

My last meeting ended at 9:30 p.m., and instead of heading home, I drove straight to our enclave.

As I arrived, I rang his phone so he could let me in. When I pulled into the yard, there he was — standing in front of his door, hands behind his back like some sexy, off-duty cop. I parked, hopped out, and ran into his arms, breathing him in.

“What’s up, stranger?” I smiled into his neck.

Inside, he was about to make some green tea and offered me some. I accepted.  I teased, “You should try some marijuana tea — that’s green too,” and he was amused.

While the kettle boiled, I enquired as to the other car in the driveway his retort was "That's my undercover ride". We both beamed knowingly 

Before showering, I asked for a quick smoke. He came back with a half-joint I’d left during my last visit. Perfect.

After a few puffs, I stepped into the bathroom. As usual, I had to detach the tall-ass showerhead and use the hose by hand. The last couple of times, I turned the stream upward — let it spray between my thighs. It tickled in the best way. I’d told him about it before. He just smirked and shook his head.

When I got out, he handed me a pair of white boxers. I grabbed one of his shirts from the laundry basket. The room was dark — lights off, but he lit a new vanilla-scented candle. Soft glow. Sweet warmth. The air shifted.

He’d mentioned how long and exhausting his workdays had been lately — mental burnout. I offered a back and shoulder massage — partly because I’m thoughtful, partly because I knew what it would unlock in both of us. 😏

I searched “jazz massage music” on YouTube. First track? Perfect.
Coconut oil — always his favorite.
I set a timer. My hands moved slowly and deliberately. He melted.

Then came the kind of foreplay you feel for days after. Soft kisses. Lips to neck. Neck to chest. Slow-burning, patient, and precise.

Lately, his favorite position is ironically my favorite number. He told me he has to “get creative” in bed to keep up with someone 15 years his junior and carnality.  I laughed. “If you weren’t performing, I wouldn’t be coming back here like this.”
And that’s the truth.

He took me slowly, Deliberate. Savoring every stroke.
When I was beneath him — legs open, breath shallow — he flipped me over, pulled me on top. That’s his sweet spot. Me, grinding slow. His hands steady. His eyes locked in.

He says it gives him a better feel of my G-spot.
Judging by the way my body responded — pulsing, tightening, releasing — I believe him.

I came hard.
He stayed still beneath me, letting me ride the wave.
I’m so glad he did.

But he wasn’t done.

Even after I climaxed, he stayed solid. I looked at him, completely spent, but still craving. 

I took control — slow grinding, barely moving, keeping him inside me.
We both moaned from the depths of it.
It wasn’t about performance anymore.
It was a connection.
Pulse to pulse.

When the final climax hit, my mouth opened in a silent scream. My body trembled.
We collapsed into each other.
Still.
Breath syncing.
Heartbeats humming the same rhythm.

Eventually, his soft snores told me he was at peace.
So I let go, too — head on his chest, wrapped in candlelight and silence.

---

Final Thought:

I didn’t plan on writing this.
It just flowed.

Maybe it’s the vanilla still clinging to my skin.
Maybe it’s the jazz still echoing in my mind.
Or maybe it’s the memory of our slow grind — like a song we both knew by heart but never rehearsed.

Whatever it is — it’s real.
It’s raw.
And I wanted to remember it this way.

For now, this is our secret tune-up.
Until the next appointment. 💫

Love in His Language, Not Mine | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

 Loving a Man from Another Time

And the Heart of a Woman Learning to Understand Him

He was born when I Love Lucy was a household staple. If we’re following the stars—a man of balance, thoughtfulness, and charm. Belonging to the tribe of Venus, the Goddess of Love.  But this isn’t about horoscopes.
It’s about time—his time, the one he was shaped by, and the one I was born into decades later.

There’s a two-decade age difference between us.

He’s respected for his clarity, calmness, and command.  A man who always has somewhere to be—some board meeting, committee task, client call. His calendar is a fortress, and I often feel like I’m pacing outside, waiting for the gates to open.

He doesn’t text all day.
He doesn’t do long emotional check-ins or midday I miss you messages.

Sometimes, days go by without a word.

And when they do, I feel ashamed of myself—ashamed that my mind wanders to dark places, that I imagine him with someone else, that I let the silence plant seeds of doubt.

But I also know…
This isn’t about another woman.
It’s about a man who was raised in a time when attention looked different. Where love wasn’t performed through constant contact, but through provision, presence, and showing up when it mattered most.

He is old school.
And I am learning what that means.

Because when we’re together—my God, when we’re together—it’s real. It’s grounding.
His voice is deep and sure.
His touch speaks before his mouth does.
He listens when I talk.
He makes me laugh with his dry wit and quiet confidence.
He takes me in like he’s studying me—no rush, no distractions.

It’s hard to explain what it feels like to be around him.
It’s not flashy. It’s not performative.
It’s solid.

And sometimes, I don’t even know what I’ve been missing until I’m back in his presence—and I feel whole again.

Still…
I miss him in the spaces between.
And I wrestle with that.

Am I expecting him to be someone he isn’t?
Or am I asking for something he never learned how to give?

---

Reflection

Sometimes I wonder if he knows the ache I carry in the quiet.
If he senses how my body leans toward my phone, hoping for a message that says,
"You’re on my mind."

But maybe his love speaks a different language.
One without constant updates or the need to fill every silence.

Men of his era weren’t encouraged to feel deeply—they were expected to perform, protect, provide and stay composed. 

Performing love, not declaring it.

And maybe that’s what I’m learning to accept.
That his rhythm is not my rhythm—but that doesn’t make it wrong.

Love, in any form, requires translation.
And if I want this to work, I need to stop reading the silence as rejection—
and start hearing it as the space where his love lives.

---

The Intimacy We Share

When we’re alone…
He touches me like a man who has nothing to prove—but everything to give.
Deliberate. Present. No rush.

He studies my body with the patience of a man who doesn’t just want to have me, but to know me.
Every curve.
Every breath.

And in those moments, age disappears.

When he’s inside me, I don’t feel younger.
I don’t feel older.
I just feel his—claimed, seen, completely undone.
Time lets go of us.
There’s no age, no doubt, no distance.
Just his breath, his body, his intention—

and my full, open yes.

Time folds.

Doubt fades.
My body speaks its own truth—open, willing, adored.

He makes me feel like I’m not just desired, but chosen.

And in that space…
I stop wondering.