Almost to 100 posts and I haven’t touched on a pretty inspirational topic: Sex.
I’ve always had a skewed view of sex. It’s kind of a part of my genetic makeup. To put it briefly, though not intentionally lightly, I was involved in sexual acts long before I wanted to be. This made me scared of sex. Through the years, I made the not so rare mistake of engaging in sexual acts for the minimal companionship it gave me, the feeling of being wanted, beautiful…every cliche rolled up into one. This made me resent sex. But time, and a healthy amount of self-love can fix those things.
Nonetheless, I still think sex is so…yeah. It’s sex. To be quite honest, sex in general bores the fuck out of me. HOLD THE PHONE! Let me explain before you think something way off the mark.
The male penis is ugly to me. All of them. Its this floppy thing that just hangs there. Balls are…balls. I know they hold purpose but anatomically – damn they are ugly as hell. Vagina is no better. I’ve seen my share of those and they are just…unappetizing. They don’t resemble flowers or pretty shells that artists try to impose on the body part. Breasts are hanging globs of meat and assholes are just that…holes. None of this sounds appealing.
The actual act of sex is just some jabbing and sloshy movements. That shit is not enticing to me. But you know what is?
That moment of silent staring when you and your potential send surges of energy through the air. That first brush of the lips. Tugging and biting playfully before the slip of the tongue occurs. The push and pull of heavy petting and groping. Those whispers of sweet/dirty/endearing words are muttered with eyes shut tight. The panting and soft whimpers when the tingling sensations are un-fucking-bearable. Pleading eyes when the racing of your heart becomes just too much. The entanglement of fingers and hair, teeth grazing against a bare shoulder, a elongated neck, a delicate inner thigh. Those first moments when you are truly convinced your potential is all you need, a throbbing pulse, an electrifying quiver, a gasp escaping your salivating mouth.
Sex is war. A battle between two bodies, struggling for dominance, submission, deliverance, reason. The act of sex itself can be a culmination of some all out primal, disgustingly beautiful moments. I don’t enjoy war as much as I enjoy the preparation for battle. I want the hours of anticipation, the torture, the hunger – the genuine feeling of starvation.
Good sex is dessert. I prefer breakfast, lunch and dinner. I want the madness that makes you stuck on stupid right before that first pelvic thrust. If the days meals were fulfilling, dessert is always a fucking dream; the icing on that slip and slide of a cake.
This is probably why I don’t watch porn. Slap slap slap, mmmm, slap slap, ohhh..done. I’m bored. Don’t get it twisted. I’m not talking about the cutesy dating, the courting, the romantic bubble baths and vanilla theatrics a lot of people are asking for. This post is not about dating. This post is about the act of sex itself. As its own entity.
I want that silent movie filmed between the layers of sheets – silhouettes of clawing fingers, mouths paused open mid exhale, curling toes and silent nuzzles. I want that unseen kinetic energy that pulsates through two puzzle pieces so deeply, so naturally needing connection. Those lustful giggles when you know you’re breaking all of the rules and not giving a damn. Those deep moments when eyes are locked and a slow smirk spreads across your face, electricity reverberating from your very core. Sticky sweaty aftermaths that leave you parched.
All day, I dream about sex – my kind of sex – my kind of dream.