Sex diary: a psychotherapist, her Moroccan prince and the celebration of life

While I'm seeing the kids off to school, making breakfast, sitting in my Catalan class, running a session, a warming thought pulses somewhere in the background. Tonight he'll arrive on the last train, walk across the whole city to my house and text me: "I'm downstairs, by the entrance."

I'm fighting the urge to cancel everything and just sleep. But I know that tonight L. will give me so much energy that I'll be able to stay awake for another whole day.

By evening a plan has taken shape: meet him in stockings and a bra, wrapped in a cardigan. He doesn't need seducing, he wants me anyway. But I love seeing the surprise on his face so much, those raw emotions, those huge shining eyes.

And I get all of it that evening. We take a short walk in the park, he squeezes my breasts and is in a constant state of shock. "It's crazy, you are wild."

In the morning I pop in to wake him up. I kiss him, so warm, so sleepy, and he pulls me into a hug. The kids don't suspect that L. is here on the second floor, so I spend literally a minute in "our" room.

When I come back after taking the kids to school, L. has already made coffee and taken care of little household chores. If that isn't sex, what is?

Dirty talk in English is very simple, and at a café over breakfast I whisper obscenities to him. I love seeing him get a little embarrassed, and his brown eyes fill with fantasies and desire.

We stroll around the sleepy, boring town and talk about how there clearly hasn't been enough sex today. Where could we do it? It would be good to go back and do it right on the kitchen table. I feel a pleasant warmth spreading down below. This desire grows every day, deepening and expanding inside me.

"Do you know what I especially love about you, among many other things? That you're a mom. You're caring, you value love, you know how to receive it and how to express it."

Our sex is so varied: powerful, strong, tender and very passionate. And our personalities, our best qualities, intertwine so beautifully.

In sex you don't have to think, you don't have to make an impression, you don't have to chase anything or put up with anything, you don't need anything extra.

This sex is simple and at the same time very rich. Not only in what happens during it (everything there is indescribably wonderful), but also in everything happening around it. The desire, the longing, the flashbacks, and finally I see him running towards me down the street at night. And I know what will happen now, when we go upstairs. And I know what will come after. After the second or third round he'll put his arms around me and fall fast asleep. It's an amazingly comfortable embrace, you can sleep in it all night. If you move a little, he only pulls you closer.

Our feelings are getting calmer, but the passion ignites instantly.

I think about how sex is always something bigger than genital contact, bigger than the minutes or hours we spend in bed. Sex is a celebration of life that includes everything: his gaze from under his thick lashes, our dancing on the balcony under the sky, the gesture with which he wipes away my tears from the bright sun, and the impulse with which he rushes towards me when we meet.

Today several clients came to me at once with questions of life and death. I feel the pulse of life so acutely right now, and its other side looks at me through my contact with others. The fear of passing away, the wish to pass away, fear of the future, rethinking and searching. Thanks to the enormous strength that L. and I are given, I can accompany these deep processes from my own place of balance. That's another bonus of this love, of this never-ending sex and the warmth we give each other.

L. and I meet at my bar, which is closed for the low season. I find an opened bottle of Dominican rum and we knock back a couple of shots. We don't feel tipsy at all. He starts kissing me at the bar, and next thing we're having sex in the back room. We tear my dress, break an earring, and then the alarm interrupts us: time to go. We're late for the train back. We're in luck: the train is even later.

There's nobody on the upper deck of the carriage, and we get a crazy idea. I give L. a blowjob. He's tense and keeps watch so that nobody comes up to us. At the same time the scene itself thrills him, and he's barely breathing. Of course, neither of us comes, but the very fact of it gives us both pleasure. I imagine us riding around Europe in empty carriages and...

I think about how quickly and how deeply we've become close. I'm afraid that at such speeds we could quickly fly off this road and go our separate ways. I really don't want that. I choose to be with him for as long as possible. If there is such a choice.

It's amazing how similar people can be. Different ages, different cultures. Our playlists match by about 80%!!!

Are we confusing love and attraction? I feel one carrying on from the other. I love sex with him. And I love him. The way he thinks, the way he jokes, the way he laughs. I love everything about him. "If I had nothing left but the ability to smell, I'd want it to be your scent." This is wild chemistry.

"Fuck me on the kitchen table," I say after breakfast, and he takes me on the table. This position is wonderful: I can see his face, he can move fast and powerfully, and I can't stop admiring him. This animal sex isn't lacking in tenderness and care, and that's the best combination there is.

Sometimes I think I've merged with him, dissolved in him. And then I remember that this passes, feelings evolve, sex becomes more and more familiar. I choose to enjoy what's happening and analyze a little less.

I was in a serious relationship for 18 years (ironically, my current boyfriend is also 18). My husband and I had periods when there was a lot of sex, and periods when there was none at all. There were also times when sex became routine, and sometimes I agreed to it without much desire. And yet even in our family life we created vivid moments: sex in unusual places, new practices, dates in sex hotels, parties.

Now, two months in, L. and I are in our most passionate, hottest stage. A time I had almost forgotten. The age gap works in both our favor: his desire wakes up instantly, he's open to new experiences and ready to learn, while I know what I want, got over any shyness long ago, have plenty of experience and delight in his libido. "You give me maturity, I give you youth."

I look at our photo from bed. I don't like how I look in it. But he is perfection. His nose is buried in my cheek, his eyes are closed. I remember that moment. Bliss.

I don't want to miss him like this. But I miss him so much. I'd like to love him a little less. But I can't. Sometimes I feel so silly. I get angry at myself for wanting more. And with the very next thought I catch myself: "But it's so natural to love him."

How do you not want more? How do you accept only what's given, what's possible right now? Love sets you free, and love ties you down.

On Thursday we have to pretend to be just friends all evening. And that's the hardest part. I touch him on the sly. I catch his scent. I dream of kissing him. But not yet.

At night we go upstairs to "our" room. "How much love this room has seen," he says. If I had to choose a place to spend eternity, I'd choose this room with him, on any of our days, evenings or nights.

One day this will pass. But right now I want to move in one rhythm with L. So be it.