In my interactions with women, I often strive to produce a sense of urgency in my body. A hunger, a desperation, a need. In my daily life, my sexual desire manifests, primarily, cerebrally. I see an attractive woman and I think to myself, there’s an attractive woman. I admire her features, her style, her manner. Rarely does this initial cerebral attraction journey south through my body to my cock. That’s just not how my desire works. My cock tends to respond primarily to touch. This is not exclusively true. Sometimes, my cock will twitch to life, stimulated by some external stimulus. A photo, a person, but most often, an action. Someone may interact with me in a way that makes my cock hard. She may do what I want, give me what I ask for, make me feel alive, safe, desired. But usually, there’s some combination of these things, and touch – whether by me or you – is essential.
As I’ve written about a number of times on this blog, I often seek this sense of feeling alive.
In a recent interaction with Marina, this phenomenon manifested spectacularly. Marina has sent me gigabytes of porn. She does make my cock hard. She does so not just with the porn she sends, but also with her vulnerability, her curiosity, her openness, and her willingness to travel places with me that she’s never imagined she could travel before.
The other night though, she took me somewhere I have not traveled before.
In response to a request for me to see her orgasm, Marina sent a teasing glimpse of her touching her pussy. Generally speaking, I am a very softcore guy. I like to see women in clothes, getting into and out of clothes, coming in clothes. I don’t generally seek particularly explicit images from the women with whom I interact, and in my in-person interactions, my peak sexual experiences typically occur when neither of us is fully nude.
I’m not squeamish about the female body, or about the male body. I love a beautiful human form. Especially a female one. It’s simply that, for me, sexual excitement lies primarily in boundaries, obstacles. In what’s obscured, and in what is, slowly, tantalizingly, revealed. Once revealed? Well, that’s the end. Like an orgasm, it may well be the destination, but I’m here for the journey.
So, back to Marina’s pussy. It has a tuft of pubic hair. It’s trimmed, not shaved. I’ve asked previously for her thoughts about allowing her hair to grow. I haven’t directed it. I wouldn’t. It’s her body, not mine (though more on that later, perhaps in another post). But I have asked her thoughts.
So in this little image, this short video, that Marina sent me, the camera is askance, off to the side. I see her finger tracing a path around her mons pubis, teasing her clit just a little, knocking at the door of her cunt, making little paths around her pubic hair.
This video awakened a desire in me I don’t recall having ever experienced before. Suddenly, I knew, I knew, that what I needed was to see Marina’s fingers touching her clit, sliding in and out of her cunt, from precisely this angle. Close up. I needed a visceral sense of her wetness, of the bodily manifestation of her arousal. (Marina wondered if this was in some way a reflection of a pang of desire to fuck her in that moment. I do want to fuck her. I did want to fuck her in that moment. But no, that wasn’t what was at play – what was at play was a very visceral, in-the-moment need that related to Marina’s compliance, her behavior, and my visual stimulation. More, I think, the former, though. My need to see was about my need to know she had done as I asked, to be given raw visual evidence of her compliance.
I don’t think I’ve ever made this particular request – show me, close-up, as you touch your clit, as you slide your fingers in and out of your drenched cunt – of any woman before. In fact, in the past, when a woman has sent me a close-up of her cunt, I generally have recoiled. Much as I imagine most women respond to an unsolicited dick pic.
Marina loves to please me. My inbox was flooded over the next few hours with almost a dozen orgasms, produced by her, her fingers sliding in and out rubbing her clit, her phone inches from her cunt. My cock could have broken a thick window.
Later, we debriefed. “Tell me about what happened there,” Marina said.
I tried. But the truth is, I don’t know. I don’t often (allow myself to) feel need. I’m very guarded, very controlled. My orgasm comes when I will it, and not a moment before. I script sexual interactions to protect myself from disappointment, from damage. Need is vulnerable, it can be disappointed, it can go unfulfilled. For this and other reasons, I defend myself mightily against the phenomenon of need. In this moment though, I needed. I needed Marina to give me what I wanted. I needed to see her fingers sliding in and out of her pussy, to see her pussy itself as her fingers entered and excited, pressed, rubbed. I needed to see her thighs quivering with her orgasm, up close, in something like the view I would have if my head were there.
When I was 10, 11, or 12, I remember seeing hardcore pornography for the first time. I was baffled. The vaginas being penetrated by penises looked nothing like what I had seen of my mother’s vagina, of my friend’s vaginas, when I was younger. I imagined vaginas either as simply a slit or a tuft of hair covering an invisible slit. The various parts, the vulva, the labia, the vagina, the clitoris – these all, notwithstanding a theoretically progressive sex education class or two in school, were mysteries. How was it that women had such a complicated unfamiliar essential part of their bodies about which I knew, honestly, nothing?
I remember hunting for the next few years for pornography that featured women inserting their fingers in their pussies. It was, largely, a fruitless exercise. My access to pornography was constrained by what was sold at the newsstands I frequented. Though the newsstands in question were in a 1970s Times Square, I wasn’t prepared to brave the nearby (much more intimidating) shops that sold more hardcore pornography. The softcore stuff simply stopped short of penetration. And even among soft core magazines, those that featured beaver shots, vaginas spread wide for the eye to take in, did not appeal to me.
Even then, I knew that what I craved was obscurity. Also, though, I did crave, in a way that was destined to wait years for fulfillment, a woman’s orgasm. I was confused, imagining that penetration and orgasm were somehow… the same. Not the simple mistake that so many boys and men make, imagining that penetration alone can stimulate a woman to orgasm. This was a much more fundamental, profound mistake. I imagined penetration would instantly, hydraulically, produce a convulsive orgasm. Like a switch being flipped, a circuit being completed. As if the one and the other were inexorably, inevitably, instantly the same.
Decades later, my relationship to vaginas, to clitorises, vulvas, orgasms, is much more nuanced. Much more informed. Much more experienced. I can get most women off.
There is little I crave more than the sensation of a woman convulsing in pleasure for me. I don’t fetishize the female orgasm. I have had lots of great sex that was orgasm-free.
But maybe that’s not quite right. I do fucking love the female orgasm. The vulnerability, the vitality, the power. The desire. The pleasure.
From the start, Marina has been open to me in ways that have surprised me, astounded me, delighted me, engorged me, gratified me, and satisfied me.
On this night, as her thighs lay splayed open for me, her cunt tempting me, the need that I spend so much psychic energy avoiding, resisting, overflowed in me.
If only I could access that sensation of need more regularly. It is, I think, why my preference is for oral sex over fucking. Fucking, to be done properly, demands aggression, desperation, hunger, need.
And there’s something about experiencing that need that scares me.