We were in bed and had sex. I usually have my eyes closed. This is about seeing him during sex.
what sex is
Well, sex is when I suck his dick, when he’s caring for my nipples with touch, when we cuddle in a sexy way, when I gently bite his hands, when we say suggestive things to one another and move in that direction. Funny, to try to distinguish between pre-sex and sex.
Sex is penetrative or not. We could have sex even without private parts. We could have sex with or without language, with or without friction or pressure.
One time we had phone sex, when he was on a trip. I was on a trip also. He was in a hotel lobby–we were talking–I was masturbating. When I came, I felt surges of love and was almost immediately lonely. Hugging the pillow felt sad. Maybe I was already sad.
I do have a hierarchy–different sex acts require different amounts of vulnerability and effort. When he climbs upon me, slips his dick into me, and I’m accommodating him, it feels like what I thought sex was, when I was a kid. A very primal, basic act, missionary style–I’m being entered and used, for better or worse.
He is inside me, and I want it very much. He’s going to thrust into me over and over again until he comes–that’s the basic narrative here. Many variations are possible, like I could come first, he could hold me down, he could stop and masturbate, he could pull out at a critical moment and ejaculate on my abdomen. We could switch positions, one of us could say something strange.
But for the most part, I know what’s going to happen. We’re working toward a climax for him, collaboratively experiencing this arc of pleasure predictably. Feels simple. I can be more or less actively participating, but he’s using my body, to come in, moving more, on top. He has more control, physically.
I feel pretty sure I won’t get pregnant–he had a vasectomy years ago, and his sperm’s motility wasn’t so great to begin with. Any fear or caution isn’t about that.
The push push, being thrusted into, force, like impact but slidey. When I was a teenager, I heard “Sex is violence.” I heard that from a man, and then later Andrea Dworkin saying all “hetero sex” was violence. I’ve been thinking about queerness, penetration, dicks, dickcentricty, and how it really feels to be me, ever since.
I can submit, push back steadily or faster, grab at his shoulders and back, ask for more, harder, faster, stop–please more. Grasp his dick with the muscles of my cunt. Whimper, emote, look or not look at him, and my face has expressions, if he looks at me. Often my mouth is open, eyes closed, a grimace from the intensity so good it resembles pain.
I can hold my tits together, making it easier for his mouth to grasp a nipple and suck. Always I can think, remember, desire, imagine saying things I’m not saying. Hold his hair back. Worry someone outside can hear the bed squeak. Move a pillow, caress his chest, rub his sides.
I listen to his breathing and hear that he’s going to come. I’m feeling his dick in me, in detail, and then I can feel the stream of semen when he starts to ejaculate. He seems to feel it two seconds later, or that’s when he folds or buckles, flooded with feeling, appreciative, overcome. I feel his semen pulse into me, his dick’s spasms, a little or a lot. I feel his emotions of joy and release.
Usually he’s extremely glad and slips his dick out of me a few seconds later, and kisses my tummy. The first few years, he didn’t. Now it’s like a tradition. He’s catching his breath, thanking my body with his lips, kissing over and over the fat above my belly button.
Sometimes he says I’m beautiful, looks down lovingly at the cunt he just came in, rubs my vulva with his fingers. I might make a request, like that he push on my mons with the heel of his hand.
Or I might make the kid motion with my hands that means “pick me up” so he comes close to me and cuddles me. I might masturbate then, kiss him, ask him how he’s doing, praise him–whatever sweetness.
For play I could struggle, during sex. Lately the word “no” forms in my mouth, while we’re doing it. I feel overwhelmed a lot, enjoyably. The no is a delicious, happy, overly desirous no. Like, “No, it’s too much–God, give me more.” Contradiction no–weird no!
his spirit with my spirit
But last time, afterward, I told him I don’t usually look at him, when we’re doing it like that, because I can see him better with my eyes closed.
I’m imagining him really hard. His spirit with my spirit as his body is with my body. Sometimes when I do open my eyes to look at him, I feel confused because he looks different in the world than he does in my imagination.
He said he could relate–he can see me better with his eyes closed too. We’re feeling each other, deeply with each other. Happy for love.