The Sex That Ain’t Sexy

Sex is some good stuff.  There are countless reasons and ways to have sex.  It’s pretty much like chicken.  Sure it can be bad, but you have to go out of your way to mess it up.  I’m slow to dismiss a fella as wack in the sack, simply because I’m not picking up what he’s putting down.  Sometimes, things are a matter of style and preference.  What’s toe curling to one person, is puzzling to the next. For example, I don’t want “it done to me.”  I also don’t want to “do it to” anyone else.

Allow me to explain.

I believe that when I have met an individual with whom I have embarked upon a mutual agreement to share naked time, I don’t want him to turn into a one man show of turning me out.  Conversely, this is not Magic City meets the Bunny Ranch.*  I feel a lot of us get so caught up in being remembered as spectacular, ground breaking lovers, we forget why we’re there in the first place.  I’m all into the sharing of energies and being present in the moment.  I can’t be concerned with whether or not you’re going to mark me down in history as the premier fellatio artist of the new millennium.  Plowing me into the next room through the headboard AND the wall in the name of “blowing my back out” is also quite unnecessary.

Quality is certainly Job One in my camp.  I gets down for my crown, and I expect my dude to do the same for his. The porn star fixation is lost on me.  I find it to be contrived, insincere and frankly, insecure.  Homie, if I’m already sharing sexual space with you, it means I like you and want you to have a good time too.  If the neighbors knowing your name is more important to you, be my guest.  Just understand that I’m not the girl for you.  As far as blowing my back out – let’s don’t and say we did,* and focus on having a good time.

*I mean, unless we agreed upon…nevermind.


You know what I like?

Easy conversation.  Especially with one of “them.”  After 11.  When you’re not quite “there” yet, but you know you’re on your way.  When you save his call for last, because you like him to hear the day’s anticipation in your voice.  And your voice is low, and his voice is low, and you’re talking about…your favorite cartoon.  But you’re saying it in a way that indicates a future plan to watch that cartoon…in your room…after you’ve woken up…naked…if he plays is cards right.

My favorite part of the male form is that groove in the arm, where the deltoid ends, and the biceps and brachialis begin.  Like that space was made specifically for my fingers to grip as we, um, watch cartoons.

I love gratuitous and unnecessary whispering.  Something that could have been announced from the podium, but we choose to share only with one another.  Just enough for cologne or perfume to graze the olfactory senses, and not one moment longer.

I want the act of hand-holding to be both erotic and deliberate; fingers that start by brushing against the back of my wrists, slowly enveloping the entirety of my hand, with fingers gently butterfly-kissing the center of my hand.

I enjoy occasionally denying my id.  There’s something about occasionally being left wanting, that makes the realization of your desire that much sweeter.  There are things in this life that are worth waiting for.  Letting your mouth water for one more moment, so that the meal is that much tastier.  Cutting a kiss short just by just one second, because you want the next one to be that much more “umph.”  Whew.

Yeah y’all.  It’s like “that” today.