Love In An Elevator

So, I am working on this article for one of the sites I write for, and I keep procrastinating.  I just can’t seem to wrap my head around the subject matter in the moment, and so I keep letting myself get easily distracted.  I was in the middle of reading something for research purposes, and suddenly started thinking back to this morning.  The lovely, and might I add, saucy Fern DeVilliers at The Fur Files posted a link to an article over on Smut For Smarties (Hey, Cheeky!) on different arousal types, and so I got all involved in taking the questionnaire on just that subject, which will be used to aid in research on women’s sexuality by Dr. Petra Zebroff.

Question #18 asks the respondent to describe a real sexual fantasy (I love the irony there) in the past 4 weeks to increase arousal/orgasm.  It said you could use as little or as much detail as you felt comfortable.  Seeing as my particular fantasy is all about the details, I erred on the latter.  For me to not use exquisite details when recounting this vision of mine would have felt empty and half-hearted; two things which my fantasy world is definitely not.

And thus, all attempts to focus on doing what I should’ve been doing were not only successfully thwarted, but now I was in the throes of full-blown arousal at it’s finest.

In order to type out my fantasy in vivid, full-color detail, I had to bring it to life inside of me.  It’s the breath blown across the sparks from stick and flint smoldering, or the spark of genius in the eye of an artist as they take to their canvas, and are suddenly transported into another realm as they flesh out their inner vision on the canvas before them.  I, as such, was instantly transported into my own private world of sex and sensuality.  These two attributes are inherently inextricably married, for me, in terms of sexual fantasy.

Admittedly, my response is not as well-composed as I would usually write if I were writing for you here, or for publication elsewhere, but retouching it now seems false to me, so I will leave it exactly as I entered it into their provided text box.  The timing is also a bit sped up for conciseness in replying purposes only.  In my head, these events are not quite so 1, 2, 3.  In fantasy, I get to be the director; composing each angle and view, each moment that deserves more lingering focus lingering, the pace of the scene, and every minute detail down to costume and mood.  Everything is deliberate.  I get off on the details.  In this fantasy, I get off on the insatiable hunger of raw, unrelenting, masculine prowess, and most of the men I imagine are those who wield their masculinity with an ownership of themselves that cannot be denied or dismissed.  (Good lord, I hope season 6 of Mad Men starts soon! LOL)   When I want to relinquish my control, I want it to be with someone I see as an Alpha; well matched against my own feminine energies of equal strength.

I give you this window into my fantasy life.

***

#18:

Being in a glass elevator several stories up in mid ascent with a man (think Don Draper from Mad Men). We’re dressed in business attire.  He stops the elevator between floors, turns and presses my back against the  glass wall of the elevator.  His bulging erection rubbing against me with intent. He kisses me deeply, and allows his hand to slide down my body, and begins massaging my pubic mound through my black pencil skirt.  He holds me against the wall so I cannot break away, letting me know I’m his and he plans to take me.  Using the weight of his body he holds mine in place, and uses both his hands to hike up my skirt around my hips, then dives with the fingers of one hand down the front of my panties and slips them between my lips to feel the warm juices that have grown between them.  He lifts his finger to his lips to taste me, with intense eye contact throughout.  He unbuckles his belt with that same hand, and frees his rampant cock, which he then allows to slide between my legs, rubbing against the thin fabric crotch of my panties.  Kisses me like a wolf with his hunted prey, captured.  He yanks my panties down around my ankles, and lifts my body somewhat to rest on the small bar across the see-through wall.  We know people can see us but do not care.   We’re in our own world up there.  He thrusts his awaiting invader between my legs, and deep inside me.  I wrap my knees against the sides of his body.  He takes me, and we both come fiercely and quickly.  Too much heat between us to hold out against the edge of our climax.  He stays in me, eyes locked with mine, until he feels himself begin to soften.  He lowers me down gently, still keeping me where he wants me, he gives me one last soul-probing kiss, before he relinquishes me some modicum of space to adjust myself, as he tucks himself back in to his trousers. He presses the elevator button and we resume our ascent.  As we depart on the same floor and go our separate ways, I stoop quickly to retrieve my delicate black panties that lay satisfied on the elevator floor

***

When you take yourself to your edge, what do you see?  On more than one night, this is what I sail to the crest of mine on.

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Reinventing The Squeal

I don’t understand the fascination or should I say, the preoccupation, that our society has with porn.  I don’t find porn exciting to look at, or even remotely erotic.  Watching people fuck that have zero, if any, interest in or desire for one other, is boring.

While I could be totally off base here, I am going to venture a guess that the real issue people have with porn (although they might not be cognizant of it), isn’t that it’s people having graphic, carnal, balls-in-your-face sex, but that it’s people having graphic, carnal, balls-in-your-face sex, while totally devoid of any real intimate connection.   “Whoa, hold onto your panties, girlie!”, I bet you’re thinking.  Why does sex always need to have some emotional or intellectual component for it to be good?  Simple answer: because sex without those things is just about as exciting as folding the laundry on a Saturday night while watching reruns of Friends on Netflix.  Shoot me now.

Those vacant facial expressions they use to attempt to mimic the looks of lust, pleasure, passion, and joy don’t even come close to what those emotions actually look like in reality.  Their movements are cumbersome, mechanical, and strained.  I find their shallow attempts to recreate the cavernous depths of my sensual experiences of desire, ingenuous and transparent.  There is nothing erotic about the lack of connection they have with that undulating skin pop they call a partner.  They’re nothing more than a complacent puppet.  The director is just going to call “Cut!”, they’ll walk off set, fluff your hair, check their voicemails, and wonder if they remembered to turn off the coffee pot before they left the house that morning.  There is nothing enticing about watching robots have sex.  Well, unless they’re really robots having sex, because who wouldn’t want to watch Data and Seven of Nine get it on?  Just sayin’  I would still do Seven of Nine, and I’m pretty cemented on being 95% straight, so you see my point.

I want to watch two people who lust for one another, not born of scripted scenarios, but of devious hunger.  I want to see what happens between two people as their unabashed want for one another waxes into fully ripened primal need.  I want to witness what happens when they forget someone is watching; their inhibitions peeling away with each brush of the skin, each tremulous breath, each ravenous kiss.  I long to see people engulfed in their passion, hair tangled, sweat dripping, heads thrown back praising the beckoning heights of pleasure their spirits soar to.  I want to see each growl of abandon, each grimace of breathless engorgement, slip across their lips.  I want to feel the flush of my own rising eros sweep and spread like wildfire through my skin.

I want to be bewitched by the muse of your intimacy, and sullied by the ache of your flesh.  I want to want you.

Artist Unknown

And for that all to happen, for two people to be so enchanted by one another, so unchained to the choreography of sex, there has to be some form of energetic connection.  There has to be an intimacy that is shared.  Intimacy, that need not be accompanied by love, but by genuine like and reverence.  “Into me, you see”  Two people must meet each other on some level of emotional, and or intellectual congruency for theirs’ to be a passion that is worthy of igniting, and capturing.  That’s sexy.   That, is highly erotic.  That makes my panties moist.

We love to peek into people’s lives.  That’s why sites like Facebook, Twitter, and oh yes, our beloved WordPress are so intoxicating and popular.  We’re ensnared by observing the otherwise ordinary rituals of strangers loves, hates, joys, and pains, as they weave through what we casually umbrella as the “everyday life”.  We see and feel it all through the lens of our own experiences.  We become, in a way, secret lovers.  It is the intimacy shared we find the most titillating, for otherwise these moments in their lives fall flat across the page, and become commonplace to our own.

I don’t want to watch ugly muscle-choked men only picked for their giganto-cocks, having robo-sex with women donning Good-Year blimp-sized plasti-tits.  Real people do not look like this.  Real women have breasts that heave and sway, that move with their bodies, not just straddle their chests like fleshy hood ornaments.  We have sleek and slender lines, bold and curvaceous lines, dips, swells, peaks, and valleys.   And so do the men we love too!  We have the scars of surviving a full and vibrant life, and we don’t need any of that airbrushed out of us (unless by our own choosing).  We have tits and cocks of all sizes, shapes, and colors, and the banquet of choice is vibrant and thrilling.  Yes, we all have our innate preferences for what, or I should say who, we find attractive, and that is great!  Thats exactly how it should be, and it’s what keeps things interesting.  This, unfortunately, is an appreciation I see lacking in the majority of the porn that I have seen.  I’d personally rather watch two average people get it on with total fervid passion, than two “altered” people just going through the motions pretending.  Wouldn’t you?

If only I could reinvent porn.