I’ve written about anticipation. It’s hot. It is, for me, an essential part of the excitement of sex. While there’s something undeniably hot about urgency, about the ferocious hunger of desire in the moment, given a choice, I’ll almost always opt for slowly mounting, ratcheting anticipation over immediate, instant gratification. I said almost always: when you’re kneeling in front of me, hands caressing my cock through my jeans, there’s a limit. At a certain point – generally sooner than I might imagine – I’ll be ready to call the anticipation phase to come to an end, to free my cock from its constraints, to sink it into your waiting mouth.
I live for that sensation before, though – for the ache in my cock that grows as the distance between now and the moment I’ll have you closes, for the preoccupation that crowds out all other thoughts as I imagine the sensations and experiences, the pleasures, that await me when I finally get what it is that I want.
Waiting, though, is something different. Waiting is, first of all, an activity. Anticipation is a state of mind, something I feel, something that washes over me, deliciously. But waiting is almost the opposite. It’s an unfulfilling, empty, even maddening occupation, devoid of pleasure, devoid of fun.
Make me hunger for you, make me need you, make me anticipate what comes next.
But don’t make me wait.