Descent into wordlessness

Reading my last post and The List again, something struck me. One of my favourite things about sex is the utter obliterating oblivion of it - being swept along into a state where I am no longer verbal, where my senses are partially or sometimes completely obscured by sex. When I think about sex and fantasise about sex, this is what I'm yearning for.

The funny thing? It's only really happened with two people, half of the lovers who really did something for me sexually. So why I should associate oblivious delirium so strongly with sex, I don't know. I always maintain that truly great sex is a perfect exchange of energy (which can, in theory, make a handshake sex), after all. I get some of that oblivion from yoga when my body finds perfect repose and balance in some crazy pose that I was struggling to perfect or maintain - when my body stops fighting itself, my mind takes off on a ridiculous high. Maybe that's energy balance within the body. Maybe it's all the same thing.

The one who hurt me so badly, he was really very good in bed. I loved his cock; it was beautiful, stout and well-proportioned. He would literally go down on me for hours on end. It almost became like a game for me; I'd think I'd come as much as I could, and then ask him to tease another orgasm out of me, just to see if it would happen. It always did. But I would be lying there with complete lucidity; I'd be able to speak, I'd be able to see, everything would be clear and ordinary; I never got into that space. Is that subspace? Was it the gentle domination, or the pheromones that caused May and he-who-it-doesn't-feel-like-fucking-with to induce this in me? Mind you, it didn't always happen with May, just on a few memorable occasions, during one of which I hallucinated.

I don't like my sex to be calm. I don't like being in control. I don't want to lie there and think "I wish he'd stimulate my g-spot a little more forcefully" or "I love it when he licks my ass, thumbs my clitoris and has two fingers hooked in my pussy". I want to hear my own screaming from a distance, feel utterly helpless, and for every little motion to be a surprise universe of newness exploding under my skin, even when it's old and warm and familiar. I want to give myself over completely and be surprised to the point of detachment (or is it detachment to the point of surprise?) when I have an orgasm. Even when I'm giving a surprise blowjob and it's the morning and we should have run out of the house ten minutes ago and nothing's going near my genitalia.

The List

Everyone does this, I am sure. I just sat down and made a list of all the lovers I have had. It's not the most cheering list in the world, mostly because "lover" is too grand a word to describe some of these people, who seemed somewhat "challenged", shall we say, when they were faced with my willing body.

It's also a little weird because somewhere along the way, I lost count, and my number is higher than I'd thought it was. I don't think the number matters but sometimes I get creeped out by my past behaviours. For all that I'm a decadent, hedonistic, pleasure-focused human being, the sad truth about casual sex is that a lot of the time it's not really very sexy. Maybe this is old age setting in, but these days I think it's a lot more hedonistic to cook and drink wine with a good friend and laugh until four in the morning than it is to rub my sweaty, drunken, naked body against that of a stranger. I mean, that can really be fun, but tends to be quite forgettable. But I digress: perhaps I just haven't had the right casual encounters yet. Or maybe I just have to face facts and accept that for all my supposed craziness, feminism and independence, inside I'm really a mumsy little domestic creature, who always makes sure everyone's teacup is full and that they get a second helping of stew.

(By the way, I'm not actually all that old, I don't think. I'm in my mid-twenties. That's why it's still, just barely, amusing to joke about old age...)

The list sits in front of me, glowing brightly on my laptop's screen. There is one woman on the list (she is my best friend, and I would do anything for her). My other best friend, male, is also on the list. Of everyone else, apart from he-who-it-doesn't-feel-like-fucking-with, I'm only in contact with the married one, and I have been avoiding him like the plague for professional reasons. My first is now married, and while we would probably hang out and have a coffee if we bumped into each other (unlikely as he now lives 4000 miles away) we don't write to each other or anything. Another would get in touch if he were coming to town, as he did in May. Another hurt me so much that it took me a ridiculous amount of time to get over him. The others were all casual encounters and while some had their charms, I'm not really interested in seeing any of them again, even just to hang out.

It all makes me a little sad, but I suppose it would be kind of bizarre to have a whole string of satisfying, cute, adorable relationships behind me, all like he-who-it-doesn't-feel-like-fucking-with. It would be strange to ring them all every few weeks and hang out. And it would be even worse if they had committed sexual violence towards me. I've been hurt emotionally over the years, but I've never been raped, never caught an STD, and I have been lucky enough to find a few people I felt a real sexual connection with.

Stock-taking has to be a good thing. How does your list make you feel?

an empty space

After nearly three weeks of muddling along and reassuring myself that I'm coping really well, and distracting myself, and doing perfectly fine on my own (as I have done before, for very long periods of time), the monstrous libido has finally attacked and decided to thrust its way back into my consciousness with relentless insistence. All I can think about is the boy with whom fucking feels like more than fucking, and part of me, due to the circumstances of this split, is nagging away saying I should get over him and I don't know, sleep with other people, or something.

But I don't want to AT ALL, I know that I could but I can't imagine being touched by anyone else right now, and as I sit here feeling so horny that I practically feel like a part of my body is missing, all I can think about is his mouth on me and his hands on me and a thousand other splintered images that drive me crazy, because while they're insanely erotic, all they do is further highlight his absence.

And I can't write about the sex because it makes me feel funny, which is even more annoying, because I do find that writing about sex is a fabulous outlet for sexual frustration.

I've missed lovers before, but why does this one feel so different? Have I just changed? Or am I kidding myself?

As sex blogs go, this one is pretty terrible. I posted some titillating stuff for a while there - all from memory with no embellishments, might I add - but I've just taken a more than six month hiatus. Terrible manners! But what can I say. My monstrous sex drive was definitely calmed after the encounter with the old friend, and after that I had a sexually uneventful but insanely busy summer.

I've just emerged from a two-month actual relationship. It might rekindle in a while, and in my head and heart it is definitely still going on, but it's a complicated story with unnecessary details. I could write it all here, but it's not very sexy, and that's what my friends are there for, anyway.

The whole thing developed with the kind of comforting normalcy I have never actually experienced. I had been insanely attracted to him when we first met, but it was in a kind of work situation, and he was extremely intimidating so I never pursued it, and then the work thing ended. When I bumped into him in August, I was pleased to see that I was still attracted, and he wasn't quite as intimidating, and we started hanging out with mutual friends, and then we started hanging out alone and listening to music and watching movies, and then one night I slept over even though I lived a laughably short distance away, and then I stayed there pretty much every other day; whenever he and I were both free.

The first time I slept in his bed, we made love. I had my period. I let him know very soon after crawling into bed, but it didn't remotely put him off. That was the first time I ever had sex on my period; the first time someone went down on me while I was bleeding. It was a welcome surprise; I liked him a lot and was very attracted to him, but half-expected to pat him on the head when it came time for a repeat encounter and suggest some other activity (that kind of thing just doesn't happen to me, you see; I don't meet boys who are funny, who I like the look of, who are smart, who I'm attracted to, who are actually available and there and present, who know how to please me in bed. Or who I would even let into my bed in the first place.). But there I was, bleeding, with a bloody pantyliner, and there he was, dipping and licking and sucking and making me crazy, and surfacing to kiss me, and god. Yum. When he finally got inside me, I was literally shaking with anticipation, almost biting his lips in my hunger for him. I felt his bones through his skin, his marzipan-smooth skin, and we twisted round each other and apart and... well, this feels so silly to write, but it didn't feel like fucking. Yes, he had his weenie in my privates; no question about that; and yes, it was going in and out. But there was something else going on.

The last time we had sex, he unexpectedly bit my thighs as he worked on my vulva relentlessly with his fingers, effortlessly coaxing yet another orgasm out of me. I had never been bitten in sex before and it drove me insane. After sating each other spoon fashion, we fell asleep still joined, and stayed that way, warmly silky, for some time. The last time we made love, he twisted my flesh in his hands, slapped me, chewed on my nipples, bruised the soft flesh around my vulva with his hands, left biting kisses on my buttocks, pulled my hair. It was violent, almost angry, but lacked none of the fluidity so present in our previous, more dreamy encounters and afterwards, as ever, we sweetly draped round each other in sleep.

It feels funny to be writing about this. As anonymous as this blog is, it's strange to pull this sweet, dark, bitter, visceral, pretty, internal thing out and see it in normal, everyday, tungsten light, instead of by light that seems to shine through red, pulsating veins through a tiny crack...


I've been driven mad! See?

Still, I'm trying to rationalise the relationship in my head, and I'll try and sort out some sex writing about it if I can. I think it might be healthy.