I do sex but I do not do desire.
I am reading an erotic novel and it is all about love. There is some coy confusion about fucking but the woman can go on and on about desire as if the actual act of sex was something that stands in the way of a gluttony for longing.
Tonight, I think, I will draw it out. I will spend hours building up to the act itself. I will tease and touch and gesture vaguely in the direction of sex. But when the moment comes I want it and I can’t be bothered with what others might call foreplay. I want the act, the final release for the meniscus of desire. I want the spilling over, the spit and blood and sweat and come. I want the viscousness of flesh on flesh and although I try to sting the moment out, the rage of it spills over and I look at the clock, hoping that I might have snuck over the two and a half minute mark, and find that I have disappointed myself yet again.
I think he will become bored of the speediness of the act. I think he will want some woman who plays with the idea of denial, a carefully orchestrated dance, a maybe-later kind of seduction that invents exhaustion, headaches, periods and mental strain to string the act of it out for as long as possible.
Next time, I say as I fume in the throbbing aftermath of an orgasm that has wracked my body, leaving me breathless and boneless and aching with the uncontrollable contractions. Next time I will play it out more. I will pretend disinterest, I will make him work for me.
False promises. Next time will be the same desperate gluttony for quick release, the need outweighing the desire. The consummation urgent, desperate, violent.
And afterwards I will lie in the aftermath and wonder, yet again, if I am going it wrong.
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