I donāt want sex, I want the things that lead up to it. The slow kissing then the passionate kissing, then the pulling closer, the neck kisses, the grabbing, biting, heavy breathing, grinding, the pauses while you catch your breath, feeling each other. Oh my. Then sex.
AJM better be reading this š
2014 is not a good year to be a teenage girl. The last of the 90ās kids are growing up and we are starting to see the effects of being raised with the Internet. For generations before us, hormonal teenage boys looking for sexy images of women had limited options; they could brave the embarrassment of going to the counter and buying Playboy, they could look through their sisterās Cosmo or they could use their imagination. Porn today has rid itself of the embarrassment-factor by embracing the anonymity of the World Wide Web; Playboy isnāt really considered to be porn anymore, the real stuff lives in your phone, on your laptop, your tablet; it is available anywhere, anytime at the touch of a button. In fact this very website receives a steady stream of hits that result from someone googling some combination of āhousekeeping pornā + āsexā, ālesbianā and/or ārapeā. As you read this, somewhere there is an eleven-year-old boy curiously typing āpornā into Google, probably hoping to see some big boobies. Fast forward a couple of years and he is masturbating to a video of a crying woman who is being tied down, simultaneously penetrated by three men, spanked, and being called a whore. Young boys are being de-sensitized to violence and the more they consume, the more abusive, the more graphic the porn has to be to excite them.
When sex becomes a production or performance that is when it loses its value. Be mutual. Be loud. Be clumsy. Make noises, be quiet, and make a mess. Bite, scratch, push, pull, hold, thrust. Remove pressure from the moment. Love the moment. Embrace it. Enjoy your body; enjoy your partnersā body. Produce sweat, be natural, entice your senses, give into pleasure. Bump heads, miss when you kiss, laugh when it happens. Speak words, speak with your body, speak to their soul. Touch their skin, kiss their goose bumps, and play with their hair. Scream, beg, whimper, sigh, let your toes curl, lose yourself. Chase your breath; keep the lights on, watch their eyes when they explode. Forget worrying about extra skin, sizes of parts and things that are meaningless. Save the expectations, take each second as it comes. Smear your make up, mess up your hair, rid your masculinity, and lose your ego. Detonate together, collapse together, and melt into each other.
because sex is not supposed to be air-brushed or photo-shopped.
because sex is not an event to showcase your talents.
itās supposed to be raw & primal and human.
an amazing connection ( hopefully with equal parts of love & lust)
best done when you are really ready to get lost in one another.
Sex is not a goddamn performance.
Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.
It should not require confidence.
Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.
Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.
You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.
Itās not about being āgood in bed.ā
Itās about being happy.
One should never worry if theyāre doing it ācorrectly.ā Sex is not factual. I donāt want your cookie-cutter sex, I donāt want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I donāt want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. Itās enough.
What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when thereās only one. Hello, hereās me. Hereās you.
Donāt worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.
Donāt worry about making me come. Iām here. Right where I want to be.
I am overwhelmed by wanting; you donāt have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So donāt put on a front. Donāt taint this.
Iām frustratedāitās just authenticity I want.
Donāt say that something I like is ugly. Donāt compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.
I donāt care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.
āGood in bed,ā what.
Youāre good in my bed. Iām pleased youāre there. I feel it suits you.
Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like youād fuck me, fuck me like you feel.
This isnāt a test.
One day, heās going to know. Heāll know your birthday, your middle name, where you were born, your star sign, and your parents names. Heāll know how old you were when you learned to ride a bike, how your grandparents passed away, how many pets you had, and how much you hated going to school. Heāll know your eye colour, your scars, your freckles, your laugh lines and your birth marks. Heāll know your favourite book, movie, candy, food, pair of shoes, colour, and song. Heās going to know why youāre awake at 5am most nights, where you were when you realised youād lost a good friend, why you picked up the razor and how you managed to put it down before things went too far. Heās going to know your phobias, your dreams, your fears, your wishes, and your worries. Heās going to know about your first heartbreak, your dream wedding, and your problems with your parents. Heāll know your strengths, weaknesses, laziness, energy, and your mixed emotions. Heās going to know about your love for mayonnaise, your dream of being famous when you were five, your need to quote any film you know all the way through, and your fear of growing older. Heāll know your bad habits, your mannerisms, your stroppy pout, your facial expressions, and your laugh like itās his favourite song. The way you chew, drink, walk, sleep, fidget and kiss. Heās going to know that youāve already picked out wedding flowers, baby names, tiles for the bathroom, bridesmaid dresses, and the colour of your bedroom walls. Heās going to know, get annoyed at and then accept that you leave clothes everywhere, take twenty minutes to order a Starbucks, have to organise your DVDās alphabetically, and check your horoscopeā¦ just incase. Heāll know your McDonaldās order, how many sugars to put in your tea, how many scoops of ice cream you want, and that you need your sandwiches cut into triangles. Heās going to know how you feel without you telling him, that you need a wee from a look on your face, and that youāre crying without shedding tears. Heās going to know all of it. Everything. You, from top to bottom and inside out. From learning, from sharing, from listening, from watching. Heās going to know every single thing there is to know, and you know what else? He is still going to love you.
every time you call me
because I long ago
that I would never let
dictate how I felt.
Everything you say to me
throws my stomach into
a chaotic panic
nerves bouncing through
my body like ecstasy.
I am trying to
stay in control.
You are not helping.