I have been holding out on you. I know, I know, for shame on me. I wrote this over a week ago, but somehow couldn’t bring myself to post it. Something about my level of excitement over the experience seemed too much. It’s like I didn’t want to jinx it by being immersed in the joy of it as deeply as I was…or am. I’m still resisting posting this. There is hesitation, some trepidation…like standing on the edge of a very high cliff and looking over. Here goes nothing.
Where to begin. I’m so lax in writing this week, and so much has transpired in such a short amount of time, so before this gets any further away from me, I wanted to share.
I’d like to say, and for the most part it would be true, that I usually know right away whether I want to pursue being lovers with someone. There’s the instantaneous physical reaction that is communicated between bodies. You see someone, exchange a glance or some casual conversation, and it’s just something innately there. It doesn’t surprise you, or beguile you, it just simply exists. Sometimes it’s one sided, but if you’re lucky, it’s deliciously reciprocal.
And then sometimes I meet someone, and there’s not an instant acknowledgment of desire. It’s like my body isn’t aware of that undercurrent at all. It doesn’t say “yes”, it doesn’t say “no”, it says “I’m not sure…I want to know more before I am sure”. You would think in those cases that whatever desire is there would then be naturally less powerful than one that is immediately known.
This is so not the case, and although by now knowing this I shouldn’t be surprised, I am in awe.
I was ready for good lovers, middle of the road, “wow, that was fun, let’s do it again” lovers, but I was not ready for this. I was not ready for a sexual connection with someone that was so deliriously intense that it borders on intoxicating. It’s passion with intensity that is, to me, mildly frightening. It both implores me towards it, and makes me want to dial it back so I can feel more in control. And the best part, the part that I always find myself musing on when I think about it, is how completely unexpected it was. Even writing about it I find myself wanting to edit and erase.
I have been blessed during my 30-something years here on earth to have some amazingly skillful lovers. There is a small handful of men that I can heartily thank for helping me to discover things about my body that perhaps I would have never thought to explore on my own until they came into my life. Yet, amidst that handful, I have had only one other lover with whom I shared this same intense ungovernable ardor, and perhaps that is why I am also finding this new connection to be unraveling threads of anxiety for me at it’s force. It’s just so incredibly rare.
Sex with a sensualist is all about the journey, and less about the destination. There is no route, no map, no end point in sight. You’re out exploring a sea of sensation and desire that is endless, and only seems to unfold even more before you the more and more you explore it. This is the rabbit hole you’ve been waiting for, Alice.
I am a very orally fixated lover. My mouth needs to be engaged. Kissing, licking, biting, sucking; all of these things increase my pleasure immensely, and are, the very root of my sexuality. To find someone for whom this is also true, to be almost mirrors sexually, is just beyond compare. And not only to mirror each other in that, but also in intensity of passionate expression of that sexuality, that is undeniably raw and unrelenting. A love of touch, a love of skin, a love of sensation and play, and a lack of inhibitions…such an exponentially delightful gift.
So, this lover and I, spent over 10 hours fucking each other dizzy. There were hours that passed like minutes, and minutes that shared like hours. I have rug burn on my elbows, and I have no idea how they got there. My living room floor, the sofa, and the massage table became our great playground. At times this was problematic because, let me tell you, sometimes carpet can be quite slippery in the right position. It can also be quite unforgiving on delicate skin.
10 hours takes a lot of stamina, but really when you are as orally fixated as we are, you need that long because the first 3 hours is spent just kissing.
His body, it’s this incredible instrument of flesh. I just can’t get enough of it. There’s not an inch of it that I can keep my mouth from wanting, or needing to be tasting. He loves touch, and in his love of touch, is skillfully curled the innate knowledge of not only “how” to accept touch so open and willingly, but to communicate through his own fingers and hands, that same lustful art of sensation.
And he makes the most amazing sounds, or as he called them, “appreciations” of my touch, which I think may have made him feel self-conscious of at first, but I told him I was really paying him the deepest compliment. How I love vocal lovers! So many people stifle their exclimations of pleasure. This has never been something I understood, as vocally expressing passion is so inherent for me. There’s a spot on his body that I love so much, and I can’t decide what makes me love it more; the way it feels to me when I run my fingertips or tongue over it, or the way he throws his head back and moans when i do.
There is a deep pleasure even in the simplicity of the feel of his skin against mine, his body pressed tightly into me. When there are layers of clothing between us, I want to lift them up and peel them away just to feel his skin touch mine as we kiss. So soft and electric.
It’s rare to find someone who’s energy can match my own…who rises to meet me, and pushes back against me, and then climbs higher. It’s solid and comforting, as much as it is so powerfully intoxicating and raw.
It’s the kind of connection I crave, and yet fear allowing myself to revel in the delight of because it might swallow me whole, but I so, so, very much want to be consumed by this.