Practised lovers are my least favourite thing. Give me a man like that, and I’ll introduce you to The Goal-Driven Orgasm As Achieved in Fifteen Minutes (insert eye roll here). I hate mechanical sex. Show me a man who treats his partners’ bodies like a sexual finishing school, and I’ll show you someone who’s never developed a feeling for pacing, the relentless power of shivering breath, the endless temptation of not touching. A man who reveals himself for what he feels instead of what he knows can conduct your body like an orchestra.
My skin is an adequate sex organ, at least in comparison to the man who reads sensation like braille. Give me a dom who treats sex as an expression of himself and I’ll introduce you to the sublime.
I’m not some guy’s performance art project, and I’m not his audience either. Give me the truth of what you feel. Let me hear it in your outbreath. We’re here to connect, to expose the underbelly of our lust, and that makes authenticity the sexiest thing of all. I’m not here to find out how talented you are at doing circles with your tongue (congratulations on that, by the way. No, really. Well done.) When you’re so damned caught up in your technique, I feel as though I’m a conduit for your ego.
I want the real Velveteen Rabbit side of sex: tangible, gritty, depraved.
It takes a long time to become real. “That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily. […] By the time you are Real, […] you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real, you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
Authenticity is a skill you can only learn through courage and honesty. In practice, they trigger the hottest sex imaginable. I knew a man like that once. He understood the importance of letting his breath play against my thigh.