I associate these with life, with vitality:
My erections – the urgency of blood in my cock, playing, throbbing. The straining of my cock against fabric. And, more than anything, the absence of flaccidity.
Somehow, if my cock is limp – if I can’t feel the blog coursing through it, if I can’t affirmatively clock my pulse simply by focusing on the sensations in my penis – then I am hard pressed to feel well and truly alive. Of course, that’s not always true: when engaged in activities that are stimulating, distracting, or even simply when I’m present, attending to all the sensations in my body, I feel alive. But it is a feature of my experience of myself to date that if I turn my attention to my cock and what I find is tiny, shriveled, limp, then I feel a numb sense of deadness.
Better still, your hand on my hard cock – if my cock is hard, I want your hand on it. Grabbing tight, gripping forcefully. The sense of tension between my cock, straining to swell, to expand, on (in) the one hand, and the resistance and confinement imposed on it, the restriction, on (in) the other – that all makes me feel alive.
Orgasms (especially yours) – why is it that there is, truly, nothing that enlivens me more than a woman’s orgasm? It can be at my hand, at my tongue, at my cock. Or it can be of her own (of your own) making. I can watch, or you simply can tell me it’s happening. It’s as exciting to me, as enlivening, to know that you’re coming for me 10,000 miles away as it is to feel you shudder, your thighs clamping my ears, my tongue on your clit, fingers deep in your cunt.
Pussy – but it’s complicated. A vagina bare, exposed, does not have this association for me. Somehow, seeing the origins through which my life emerged doesn’t, in and of itself, make me feel alive. For a vagina to make me feel alive it must be at least partially obscured. What makes me feel alive, then, isn’t so much the pussy as my achievement of the pussy, the unveiling of it for me, its revelation to me. So it’s not the pussy itself – it’s something about the moment at which it transitions from being your pussy, private, hidden, to my pussy, given to me, for my appreciation, for my use.
Thighs – sometimes I wonder if it’s not your pussy that I crave, but your thighs, open for me, inviting me. Inviting my hand, my fingers, to your cunt, to cup it, to probe it, to rub your clit, to slide deep inside. Inviting my mouth, my tongue, to lick you, to tease you. Inviting my cock, to fuck you, hard, deep.
Breasts – of course, breasts. Here, too, the connection with their literal life-giving aspect is attenuated. I don’t crave sucking, licking, biting your nipples, especially (though if you’ll allow me, I’ll gladly do those things). What I want most of all, as with pussy, is not to have access to your breasts, to see them, obscured, confined, straining, and then for events to proceed such that your breasts become mine to appreciate, uniquely, in a privileged, solitary way.
Ass – and, last but not least, ass. As with everything else here, your ass nude, bared to me, isn’t what I crave. What makes me feel alive, what makes me feel energized, motivated, is to see your ass encased. Fully? Partially? Preferably, again, in a way that allows me to feel that there’s more yet to discover, but also, to have a privileged view. And, more than anything else here, the sense of touch is vital: if I can touch your ass, pull it, knead it, squeeze it, spank it, and if it yields deliciously to my touch, well, then I surely will feel well and truly alive.
I can produce a sense of vitality other ways, with other stimuli, of course. Sex isn’t the only path to my knowing I’m alive, to my feeling, truly, alive. But it’s the most immediate, the most bodily, of ways.