Tag Archives: sex


“I’m not enough.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard it. The lament of the insecure. The plea for attention. The moment when desire, sex, or love stops growing. Enough drags us down to huddle in austerity. “I’m not enough for you,” as though anyone could be, or should be.

“How awful would that be? How terrible to live surrounded by the stark, sharp, hollowness of things that simply were enough?” (The Slow Regard of Silent Things. Patrick Rothfuss)

I don’t want to be enough. I want you clamoring, insatiable, aching for more. I want “let me catch my breath” to crumble into a moment that means more than breathing. I have let you break me open like a pomegranate, and no, of course you don’t owe me anything but I would be proud to stain your mouth, your hands. To have your fingers scrape every last inch of me. It’s not greedy if I’m grateful. Enough? If I consumed you whole it would not be enough, and why would I want it to?

I don’t want to be enough. I want to be too much, overwhelming, terrifying. I want you to need to step back, attenuate with something or someone else to keep from being totally subsumed. I want to be the fever dreams you can’t quite remember and can’t stop thinking about. I am a natural disaster, terrible, unsafe. If you are who I think you are, you long to chase storms. If it is too much and you still want more, I will say yes. If it destroys me I will still say yes.

If I am enough? Then you’ve had enough of me. Move on. Go gently, if you can, but move on. If I want you, I won’t think just enough is worth your time.


“I keep telling myself I won’t come back here.” He’s sprawled in my chair, clutching one of my books.

“We don’t have to have sex. That’s not the only reason I call, you know.” It doesn’t occur to me until much later that it’s the only reason he answers.

“When you called–I was trying to figure out how to break up with you. Except I can’t.”

I laugh. He looks up at me. “Sorry, just…wouldn’t we have to be together before we could break up?”

“Well, if you’re going to be sensible about it…”

“So why can’t you?”


“Stop coming back. It’s because I beat you at Smash Bros, isn’t it. You want a rematch.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely not it.” He stands up, looking for a place to put the book down. I get up and put it away before I give him my attention.

We’re face to face and too close to be coy. I take his hat off to run my fingers through his hair. He leans into me, close enough that his nose brushes my cheek and then bumps closer. Close enough that not kissing is unreasonable, deliberate torment.

“We don’t have to.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes, but you’re always miserable after.” I’ve pulled back. “I like sex. I like sex with you. I don’t want to be the awful woman who makes you sin.”

“Awful.” His voice is soft, his mouth so close to mine. “You aren’t making me do anything. Only making me want to.” I don’t know what to say. My hands are on his hip, on the back of his neck. All I want to do is pull him closer. I’ve initiated every time and I’m afraid he only half wants it. I stand still. He moves closer. “Lord, give me temperance…but not yet.”

Not yet. I don’t kiss him and he doesn’t kiss me. We let go, slam together with the inevitability of gravity. His weight and his intensity drive me back until my legs hit the bed. When I fall I drag him after me. His teeth close on my throat. I’m trying to stay quiet, not sure if my roommate is home. She used to go out with him. I’m not sure how awkward this is for her. I’m pulling his hair, snarling, wrapping my legs around him. I want to tear his clothes off. I have no intention of putting enough distance between us to get him out of them.

He rolls away to unbutton my shirt. There’s no fumbling: he’s neat and focused. I fling the shirt on the floor as soon as I can jerk my arms out of it. I reach to untuck his but he pulls back. “Did I do that?”

I look down. My upper arms are covered in leopard-spot bruises. “Yeah.” I grin. “I think you missed a spot.”

He runs his hands over my shoulders, too gently. I lean into the pressure, groan a little when he tightens his grip. His mouth lands on mine. It’s unexpected–I’ve kissed him before, and he kisses well, but he always moves away to kiss and bite every other inch of skin he can find. This time I hold him in place. We don’t break apart until I pull his t-shirt over his head.

I slide out of the rest of my clothes and onto his lap. He reaches between my legs to pop the button on his jeans, then stops. “Condoms?”

Hell. “Yes, but not– Roommate needed–” I trail off. He doesn’t need to know she’s fucking someone else, or who. “I don’t know if she’s home.” I keep a bowl of them on my desk. They don’t fit him and neither of us needs the fear of another one breaking.

“Not when I got here.” He stands up. “I know where she keeps them. I’ll explain if she’s here.” I consider arguing that I should go, but he has clothes on and I don’t. I nod. He’s only gone a few seconds, long enough for me to get nervous again. He notices. “You okay?”

I stand to put my arms around his neck. “Could be better.” He grins and lets me pull his face up to mine. I’m biting his lip hard. He dips slightly, pushing his jeans down. He catches my thighs in his hands as he straightens back up, lifts me off the ground. We teeter a moment before tumbling onto the bed. He lands on top of me. His hand slides up my thigh. I’m gasping, pushing closer to him, but he shoves me down. His teeth close on flesh an inch below my collarbone. I curl my fingers in his hair, not sure whether to pull him closer or away. “Will you please fuck me already?”

There’s a moment of fumbling with the condom. He’s shy of being watched, and I like his shyness. “Are you sure–?” I pull his hips toward me. “Yes.” He pushes into me slowly. He’s watching my face, almost comically concerned. It does hurt. His cock is the largest I’ve seen and I’m not in the habit of using lube. But I like the pain. I thrust against him hard, making us both groan out loud. I hold still, a shivering line of tension from shoulder to cunt. It takes a moment before I can stop gasping long enough to speak. “Fuck me. Hard.”

It’s his turn to shiver. He does, choking out half-sentences between gasps while I dig my nails into his back. I’m not listening. I tell him to bite, yes, harder, and he does, with one hand over my mouth to muffle the screaming when I come. And again. We’re all shuddering sweat and sound blending together. He moans “I’m going to…ngh. Please–”

I don’t remember if I answered–I was somewhere past words and his “please” pushed me over the edge again. His whole body jerked, knocked the breath out of me. When he rolled over he pulled me on top of him and held on tight.

We lay there a long time, not talking, or if we did talk it wasn’t about much. I asked if he was going to stay the night. He wasn’t, and he took that as his cue to check the time and pull on his jeans. I watch from bed, too content to move.

“Still think you’re going to stop coming back here?”

He grins at me from the doorway. “Not yet.”

Let’s Talk About Sex

“Sex only lasts like two minutes on average.”

It’s an offhand comment we’ve all heard too many times. It isn’t true: more recent studies put the average duration of PIV intercourse between three and thirteen minutes[1]. But that’s hardly the biggest problem here.

Sex only lasts” is the phrase. Not PIV intercourse (which is what the study typically cited measured), but sex. Sex starts when a penis enters a vagina, and ends when it stops (usually after ejaculation).

Everything else just doesn’t count. Well, a couple of things count, with qualifiers. Most people agree that anal sex is sex. People are more divided about oral sex, but there’s a sizable base of support for it. But that’s it.

There are problems with this definition.

Stamina is emphasized over quality of experience.
There are two measurements that are all too often used as a stand-in for male sexual prowess: cock size (usually length) and staying power. These are treated as more important markers of how good a man is in bed than either (any) participants’ actual enjoyment of the act. When men focus their energy on increasing latency to ejaculation* at the expense of reading partners’ reactions (or–god forbid–talking to them) and doing the most enjoyable things they can with their bodies, it’s real likely to lead to mediocre sex. A Vine that hits all your buttons is sexier than a three hour documentary about architecture**.

*Could I make that sound less sexy?
**Unless you have an architecture fetish. In which case, enjoy your documentary

All else is foreplay.
Foreplay isn’t “real” sex. It’s a rite to be observed before getting to the main attraction: always an appetizer, never the main course. If your goal is to have sex, foreplay is going to be rushed. It’s something to hurry through to get to the main event. It always comes before the main event. When sex is separated into foreplay and sex instead of treated as an inclusive experience, a lot gets excluded. There’s a progression of events. First base, second, third–and going backwards or deviating from these steps is considered a bad thing. It’s patently ridiculous.

Baseball: a terrible metaphor for sex. xkcd gets it.

Sex requires a man.
PIV is sex. PIA is sex (according to most). But two or more people without penises can’t have “real” sex, right? Men who can’t get erections or who prefer not to insert them into orifices don’t have “real” sex. And this gets so twisted: those men are treated as less masculine. Relationships between women carry less social weight. Sex is a pretty widely accepted marker of intimacy, so those romantic partnerships that can’t or don’t include sex don’t really count. I hope it’s obvious that this is misogynistic, homophobic, ableist, and (as usual) erasive of asexuality.

Sex is over when the erection is gone.
This belief is why every queer girl has to hear “so what do you even do in bed?” over and over again. (It’s a rude question, by the way. Also it makes us sad for you and we think it’s proof you have the most boring sex ever.) The sex does not have to end just because the cock is done/needs a break. There are so many things even the straightest of straight couples can do after (or between) male orgasm. Oral sex. Manual sex. Kinky play. Making out–one should never underestimate the intensity of kissing. Hell, put a strap-on on the guy and keep going. It’s one thing to choose to end a sexual encounter with male orgasm (I often do, in fact), but there is no reason it should be the default.

Straight cisgendered people: sex is so much more than you say it is.

Who doesn’t love sources?

1 Corty, E. W. and Guardiani, J. M. (2008), Canadian and American Sex Therapists’ Perceptions of Normal and Abnormal Ejaculatory Latencies: How Long Should Intercourse Last?. Journal of Sexual Medicine, 5: 1251–1256.

Words, Words, Words

People feel vulnerable talking about sex.

They’ll make all sorts of excuses: It’s taboo. It’s shameful. It ruins the mood.

They’re all bullshit. People don’t like to talk about sex because they’re scared. Of being laughed at, of putting pressure on partners, of being rejected, called a freak, any number of things.

The sad part is that it’s such a common fear that it is a taboo. Talking about desire and turn-ons and experiences does carry that risk of rejection, of judgment.

People feel vulnerable talking about sex because it’s a vulnerable thing to do.

And I don’t care. I think you should do it anyway.

I’m always floored when friends say sex “just happened.” “The first time we had sex, it wasn’t planned. I gave him a massage, he turned over, he had an erection, so we just sort of…” “Well no, we never talked about it, but I kissed her and we started undressing each other and one thing led to another, you know how it is.”

No, I don’t know how it is. I mean yes, I know sexual contact escalates, but silently? I can’t imagine.

It’s a taboo. It’s shameful. It ruins the mood.


It’s a taboo?

Let me explain taboo. Taboo is about the sacred. A taboo is an act forbidden because of a religious or (in wider use) moral principle. It’s about the act itself, not discussion thereof. Granted, taboo leads us to euphemisms about those acts which are forbidden, but if the act itself is acceptable then so must be the discussion of it.

I grew up Jewish. Word and deed are closely knit. We have a lot of taboos. Around sex, menstruation, food. And it is always–always!–more okay to discuss the taboo, even to challenge it, than it is to simply break it and hope no one notices.

Sex is a taboo? You can’t talk about it? I’m guessing you’re working from a system that prohibits having it as well.

It’s shameful?

If someone can’t jump in and respond to sexy texts with sexy texts (or say “sorry, now’s not the time”), if they can’t so much as allude to the content of their fantasies or say they want me…I’m out. I want completely filthy hot dear-lord-did-that-just-happen amazing sex, and that can’t happen with a partner who’s too ashamed of desire (or lack thereof) to express it. We’re none of us mind readers. There’s no way to know exactly what our partners are thinking or for them to know what we’re thinking without communication. Not all of that is verbal. Body language is a powerful tool. But if a question is asked, or if you want something and body language is not getting it across, you’ve got to use your words.

It ruins the mood?

It doesn’t. Doing something your partner does not want ruins the mood. Violating consent ruins the mood. “what the fuck were you thinking? I hate having my hair pulled!” ruins the mood. Talking about sex is fucking sexy.



I’m straddling his lap, his lip between my teeth. He’s a great kisser, so much so that I hate to stop, ever, but it’s not what I’m craving.

“God, I want your cock in my mouth. Right now.”

“I’m surprised it took you this long.” I’m sliding down his body, he’s unfastening his belt, before we even finish speaking.


My spouse and his walk out the door. He looks at me. I laugh, and look at the floor. “Well, this isn’t awkward at all.”

“I feel like a goddamn panda. Like, we have to fuck now, you know?”

“We don’t have to.”

“I’d like to.”


“Yeah. You’re probably going to have to make me shut up first though.”

He grabs my throat, hard, an instant before he covers my mouth with his. I pull him closer. When the kiss breaks we’re both out of breath. “Still awkward?”

“Mm. Will be if I talk. I suggest more choking.”

“Can do…let me grab a condom first.”


I couldn’t move my head if I wanted to. She’s holding me down with her thighs, making soft noises somewhere above me. She tilts her hips, makes it suddenly difficult to breathe.

“Can you–just–a little bit slower?”

I can’t speak. I slow my tongue, change rhythm and firmness and pressure slowly until she gasps “just like that” and grabs me by the hair.


Talking about sex is sexy. Really, really sexy.


It’s late. I’m alone in a hotel room in a city I’ve never been to before.

It’s late, but I can’t sleep. I’m alone, states away from anyone I could call at this hour. I’m texting  a partner back home, flirting and sending pictures back and forth, both getting more frustrated but not getting off. He’s teasing me for being insatiable. It’s a fair taunt, but not one I plan to let slide.

I’m sure I can find a way to entertain myself for a few nights alone.


Yes, I came prepared. [I send a snapshot of a sheet of clothespins leaning against my thigh.]

And you plan to entertain yourself how, exactly?

That’s up to you.

[He tells me where to attach them. I send a photo when it’s done.]

Like this?

Looks about right…needs more clips though.

Yeah, well. TSA might have looked askance at that. Fuck, pulling these off is going to hurt.

Isn’t that the idea? Is it worse to wait or pull as soon as possible?

Waiting. Gives things a chance to get used to the pinching, then it’s worse when it stops.

That’s what I thought. So let things acclimate then change the climate.

Of course you’d say that. Just what am I meant to do while I’m waiting?

Be patient. [He starts talking about other things, making plans for after I get home.]

Just so you know, breathing makes the clothespins on my ribs shift. Ow.

Aww. Guess it’s just as well I didn’t have you line the whole ribcage, then. I considered a couple of other patterns.

Well, maybe I can try something else after you let me pull these ones off.

Oh, you expect me to let you pull them off.


You bastard.

Yes, that I am. Shouldn’t you be a little nicer if you want me to tell you to pull?

I wish you could be here for this.

Not just because I wish someone else would pull this damn ripcord for me.

Oh? To pull the line or to fuck you mercilessly afterwards?

Or to help keep me quiet when they do come off.

So maybe you should try to convince me.

[Hell. I never beg. I hate begging. If one or two renditions of “please” doesn’t get a result, I settle into a prideful state of “fine, I didn’t need that anyway”]

How would it go if I were there?

How would you want it to?

I don’t know how you’d pull. Jerk the whole string at at once, maybe,  or steadily increase pressure to release one clothespin at a time.

Which is worse?

Whichever is worse? I don’t know which one is worse, they’re both damn near unbearable.

I suspect you’d draw it out. Waiting for that rush of pain to hit is its own special torture, and you do love to torture me.

As if you don’t… I can’t tell if this is about pain or sex right now.

Is there a difference? It hurts. And yes, I’m desperate to come.  My clit is throbbing against that horrible clothespin. What the hell was I thinking, putting one there?

That it would please me. So what is it you want?

I wish you were here. I need to come but not half as badly as I need to taste your cock. I want to make you moan and grab me by the hair. I want to do whatever it is you want me to do.

I want you to keep talking. What do you want?

I want to see your face, what this does to you. I want to fly home right fucking now; to hell with this conference I want you to hurt me.

I need to come. Please. God, I need to come ten minutes ago. My legs are shaking. It hurts. It fucking hurts and I can’t touch myself with all these clothespins in the way.

I’m afraid to pull the cord, afraid I’ll make too much noise. Fuck, it’s going to hurt.

Fast or slow, which is worse? It’s a trick question. Waiting is worse.

Please. I need to come. I need these clothespins off of me so I can shove my fingers in my cunt and imagine they’re yours. Just…please.


I’d never begged before. Talking, flirting, demanding others say these things for me, sure, but this was new and a little frightening.

New can be a good thing, right?


What’s Your Number

It comes up, every now and then. People ask: what’s your number? How many people have you had sex with?

I usually roll my eyes. Are we in high school? In college? Do we want to treat people we’ve been with as people, or notches on a headboard. Really? I’m supposed to count?

I deflect because I honestly don’t know. I don’t want to be misinterpreted: it isn’t that there have been so many I just lost track. I remember every name, every face. Somewhere more than a dozen, probably fewer than three dozen. I don’t know, because what the hell does one mean by “sex”?

When I asked the Techie if he understood why hiding his partners from each other was a serious problem, he tried to turn it around. “You haven’t told me when you were with other people either.”

“I haven’t been. You. Spouse. That girl at the party–you were three feet away taking pictures; I hardly needed to fill you in. That’s it.”

“That’s it. What about the Fireman?”

“We don’t fuck. Well, once, over a year ago. Not relevant in terms of risk*.”

We don’t fuck.

I said it without even thinking. Everyone knows what it means. PIV penetration, right? So we don’t fuck.

When he’s in town for a party, we almost always play. He keeps his clothes on. I don’t. He punches, kicks, chokes, pulls hair. I press my body against his, claw him, scream and grab and pull. He makes me come, not every time but usually. We end breathless and sweaty in a chair, kissing hard, biting harder. But still I said, without a moment’s hesitation: we don’t fuck.

In terms of risk, it isn’t relevant. I do talk about it (because why would I not want to gush about awesomeness to someone I’m involved with?). But if it were a woman, would I call it sex? Probably. Why not with a man? Where do I draw the line, and why? Is it a set of specific actions, a sense of intimacy, an intent or an outcome?

I don’t really want to care. It’s just a word, a set of words and half of them euphemisms already. Why bother wondering whether this night with this person qualifies? It won’t change what we’ve done or how we feel at all. I’m usually precise with language, though. I’m unnerved when linguistic ambiguity clouds a situation that isn’t ambiguous at all. I don’t want to care, but I do.

So where does one draw the line, and why?

* My standard behavior is to get the STI panel recommended by my doctor every six months, or in between if a risk situation arises. I tell new partners about anyone I’ve been with since a few months prior to the most recent one, if they bother to ask.

A Letter Not for Sending

I used to write letters. To family, close friends, occasionally lovers. It’s been a long time since I bothered. The last three went unanswered. It hardly seems worthwhile to pull out the stationary and fill my fountain pen for a long silence.

Some letters aren’t meant to be read. They’re just a place to say the things one can’t or shouldn’t say aloud. Angry letters, frightened ones, letters to the dead. It’s a form of processing, rarely rational, often ugly. It would be mad to send them, and I never have. This one… it wasn’t worthwhile to pull out the stationary, fill my pen, so it may as well end up here. It is not rational. It is ugly. I don’t much care.

I fucked a girl you can’t stand. Told her “don’t touch me” and dared her to think of what I might do if she did. Shoved her back with high heels and delighted in the way she leaned into me and not away. I made her beg, loudly, for the privilege of eating me out. There were ten people watching, maybe more. I asked them to critique her pleas, made her try over and over until she got it right.

I was trying to cleanse the palate, rid my nerves of the want of you. Her hands are small. Her lips–everything about her is soft and round and delicate. Nothing rough. Nothing that can hurt me. Nothing like you at all. I jerked her by the hair, felt her moan, arched my back and closed my eyes.

I came thinking of you growling “come for me” in my ear. I didn’t tell her that was why I pushed her away.

I want to say “fuck you,” but I can’t.

I want to fuck you. I can’t do that either.

There’s so much that I can’t do, or say, or believe. You said you were afraid so many times. Of fucking this up, of saying the wrong thing, of being wrong. I understood. I was afraid too. You said you didn’t want me to go. I believed you. You never did say you wanted me to stay. I thought this was caution. I never said I wanted to stay, either. You were important. Are important. Enough so that I was willing to wait.

You fucked up. You didn’t make a mistake. You made a choice. Over and over you chose secrets and lies and I don’t know why. I wasn’t afraid when I was with you, of anything but myself. Now I’m afraid that all your lies were somehow my fault. I’m afraid that I’d let you do it again. All the fear I should have had, would have had with anyone else, is crashing through the levees and I can’t do anything but let it come.

I wish you could tell me why. It doesn’t matter and I won’t ask again, but God, it’s killing me not knowing. I’m wounded. That’s fine. It’s happened before, more severely and more often than I care to admit. It makes one adept at closing wounds. This one is held open. I’m digging through muscle and gore as if you might have left some hint of your motive there. You didn’t. Of course you didn’t. Some horrible parody of faith is telling me to keep looking anyway.

I forgive you. For all of it. You don’t deserve it.


Sexual frustration hits me hard. It’s distracting, makes me snappy, things you’d expect. Then there’s the paranoia: maybe I’m not having sex because my partners don’t find me desirable. Maybe I’m not desirable. It all gets disgustingly self-pitying and the worst part is that I know better, but knowing there’s not a sound rational basis for these thoughts doesn’t make them go away.

I haven’t had sex in over a week. More to the point, I haven’t had an orgasm since last Monday. As in, eleven days. It’s contributing to an unhealthy retreat away from people and into my own head, but I don’t seem to be able to pull out of it.

I don’t even know how to talk about this without sounding like a complete brat, because I know how lucky I am to have Spouse and the Techie, and plenty of people go for far longer than a week or two without sex and manage not to whine about it all over the Internet. If it were just a brief period without sex, I’d probably be just fine and move on. It’s the circumstances that my brain twists into paranoia and self-loathing that are making it so hard to deal with right now.

Spouse has a fairly low sex drive. (Okay, just about everyone does compared to me.) If I initiate things and he’s not exhausted, sexy times will ensue (and be awesome), but he’s typically not going to be spontaneously in the mood. Lately, his mouth has been in so much pain that he can’t enjoy kissing at all. Since kissing is probably my all-time favorite activity, it kind of makes the process of initiating sexy times unpleasant and awkward for me.

The Techie’s been busy. It’s something we’ve agreed to talk about, because it’s getting ridiculous. He works late into the night on weekdays, and a significant portion of weekends. Essentially, when he’s free and invites me to do things, it’s after 2300 and I should be sleeping. When I’m free, he’s working. We met for a while last Friday night, but the girl who lives with him got back into town that same evening and he said he had to be responsible and talk to her alone a while: there were things to process.

Since I’m not seeing anyone else right now, and masturbation is just not working (because my brain hates me. Seriously. I need a new one.), I’m feeling kind of stuck. The feeling-undesirable could probably be alleviated by dirty texting or something, but because I feel that way I can’t bring myself to hit send so they get deleted.

So, yeah. I need to get laid. This will require being all sorts of proactive.


I want to make her scream.

I’ve only known her a few hours, the length of a brutal scene and a conversation broken into pieces across this party. I know how we got here. It’s easy to point to the moment attraction is affirmed, the phrase that drew a sudden sense of of intimacy. Still, that first kiss is as thrilling and surreal as all first kisses are. I know how we got here, but it hardly seems to matter.

I’m gentle at first, kissing softly, sliding fingers over her back lightly enough to catch on the texture of her skin. Both of us are marked: she has a welt for every bruise of mine, burning under my fingertips. I’m trying to be careful, to move slowly. I don’t know her body, whether she can balance pain on top of pain or if she needs this time to recover. She makes a sound like a dove and arches her whole body into me when my fingernails brush the length of a weal across her side. I want to claw her open. I want to turn her soft noises to shrieks and her shy caresses to thrashing limbs. I force my hands to relax. I whisper in her ear (I don’t remember what, only that it made her shiver and try to pull my hips against her). I’m holding back a laugh, teasing her with my teeth, grinding hard against her thigh.

It doesn’t last long, the gentleness. My mouth wants all of her, from lips to skin to sinews. My fingers curl around the shape of bones. We are ill-balanced on this unfamiliar couch. I half-fall, land with one knee on cold tile and the other between her thighs. She’s talking, asking where she should move, filling the air with apologies I don’t want to hear. I scramble up, climb her with lips and teeth and too-clumsy hands. I bite her collarbone hard, harder, until she gasps.

“Stop. Saying. Sorry.” I don’t lift my teeth from her skin. The words come out half-growl, half-lisp. I sound ridiculous. She nods anyway, biting her lip, eyes cast down. There’s a low laugh behind me. Her boyfriend (dominant. Master. Something. I don’t care.) leans over in his creaking chair. His voice is too low for words to carry. The Techie’s answer is just as quiet, just as distracting. I try to push them out of my head.

She makes it easy to refocus. I slide my teeth over her breast, my hand up her thigh. When I look up, her eyes are closed and she’s still biting her lip. “Okay?” I ask. She nods. “Can I..?” I move my fingers farther up her leg, watching her face. “‘Course you can,” says her boyfriend from behind me. Annoyance flares up. I have to close my eyes and exhale slowly before speaking. “I am not asking you.” I tap her on the collarbone with the knuckles of my left hand. “I’m asking you.” For a moment I think she’s gone somewhere past words. I’m starting to sit back, pulling away from her when her eyes flutter open. “Yes. Please.”

I can’t help grinning. I’m being rough with her, watch her face to see how she responds. I’m trying to hold back. I worry even holding back might be too much. Frankly, I’m surprised she can lie on her back at all tonight. “If I’m hurting you, or this is too intense, tell me, yeah?” She mumbles something, too quiet to hear. “Sorry?” “I said I want too intense.” She buries her face in her hands.

I wondered if she would still pull me closer if she knew what I was thinking, that I wanted to crumble her to bits between my hands and eat the pieces. I held her down, fucked her with my fingers while her hands clenched and unclenched on either side of my hips.
She’s so quiet underneath me. All I hear is the faintest ragged breathing, whisper-soft moans. I want to make her scream.

We’ve twisted. I don’t know when it happened and I don’t care. I’m underneath her, my cunt pressed against the muscle of her thigh. We’re kissing, teeth clattering. She moans into my mouth and I drink it in. I’m not so quiet as she is. I come screaming, eyes locked on hers. After that it’s a blur. I heard the Techie and her boyfriend talking at one point, gasped at them to be quiet or go away. We exhausted ourselves and came back for more for I don’t know how long. She said it was after dawn, when she got home.

We exchanged numbers. Been texting, most days. It’s been a while. I feel hesitant, shy. It’s not the sort of encounter one can leave with any expectations, but we rather get along.

She’s heading back to town this weekend, for another party. I am unexpectedly, delightfully giddy.