sex is not a goddamn performance. Sex should feel as natural as drinking water. It should not require confidence.
Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe. Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.
You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh. It’s not about being “good in bed.” It’s about being happy.
One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.
What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you. Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.
Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be. I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.
I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want. It’s originality. It’s passion. It’s joy. Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.
I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.
“Good in bed,” what. You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you. Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel. This isn’t a test.
I was walking across the floor with one of my coworkers to finish a job. I looked across the elevators and there he was. Tall, dark and covered in tattoos. We locked eyes. Next thing I know I was giving him my number. I felt connected to him, I mean any guy who finds me attractive while I'm in my uniform is worth a shot. This guy was the same age as the Drummer. (maybe I need to stay away from the old ones??) We started talking, and had one "date". Soon after he began texting super late and on odd weekdays. Thursday 2:09 a.m. K: Come over Me: Nah, I'm good K: So ur done Me: I think we want different things K: K Once, again folks. I CAN NOT MAKE THIS UP. This is the dating world. This is whats out there. Grown ass men acting like pigs. I did not meet K in the bar, I wasn't drunk when I gave him my number. On our date, he barely got passed 1st base. I thought that since I met him organically things would be different. LOL.
Please come back for more horrific stories from the dating underworld.
Joder. No se nada el donde mi viva es. Ahora no se nada. Mi viva es muy complicado.
Me gusta mucho el uno senior. Pero, no se if hombre feels el mismo. Quizás, no.
Man, I love Bey. She really does seem to have it all. Beyond Talented. Successful Businesswoman. Wife. Mother.
I've been meat/soda/jerk free for 16 days!! The jerk part is the only thing that's questionable. I feel that if I'm in charge and I know what cards are on the table it eliminates the fact that he's a certified douche. But, who am I kidding?