The problem is me.

Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.

When I have mediocre sex it’s because I’m not making it hot.

I’m not pouring champagne on my tits as I ride him or trying to blow his mind with my hot, wet, hungry little mouth or letting him bend me over the parking garage railing and slip inside while no one’s around.

It’s because I’m not taking my time to get to know every curve of his muscles, the heat of his cock in my hand, or the taste on his lips.

I’m rushing or I’m bored or I’m waiting for sexual lightening to strike like it did with The Neighbor and Troy.

It’s because I am sad.

I’ve had a lot of mediocre sex this year and I have only myself to blame, for letting my broken heart dial it in.  When it was strong and full I loved not only the hunt, but the mad frenzy of the feed.  The blood on my lips and the cum deposited deep inside my needy body.

It’s possible he may have been a mediocre lay or a less-experienced lover, but maybe he was tired, too.  Maybe his heart was also broken and limping.  Maybe he was hoping I’d ignite in him what she once had.  Either way, I’ve been the partner to many a man who was much too like me to make it any good.

The little great sex I’ve had this year has been because I’ve been swept away, not because of anything I did; I simply got lucky the times David wanted to pile drive into me and use my body any which way he could think of with that giant cock of his.

He was subversive and cruel in the sexiest way and it was so new to me I couldn’t crawl into my skull and ruin it.  He pushed me out of my own way simply by picking me up in the hallway as the door shut behind him, his mouth locked on mine and a growl in his throat.  I mean, who does that shit??

I’ve been relatively sexless for quite some time now.  I say “relatively” because I’m not dead — I think about it almost constantly — but I’m not out there.  I’m tucked away safely on my couch night after night and my phone remains dark and my computer off.  It’s like a vacation, really.

The next time I have sex, though, I will buck and ride and moan and claw and never let go until we’re both slick with sweat and panting like we’ve run a race.  I’m going to cum like a banshee and wail at the ceiling.  I will sob my release and ejaculate like a fountain and kiss his swollen lips and feel his breath puffing against my face and the smile connected to mine.

I am in no rush to change my sexless status — shit heart and all that — but when it’s time to flip the switch I vow to fuck like it’s my last day on earth.

 

7 thoughts on “The problem is me.

  1. Pingback: Friday, August 21st, is Boobday! - A Dissolute Life Means...

  2. I’ve had a lot of mediocre sex this year and I have only myself to blame, for letting my broken heart dial it in.

    I dunno – I see it a bit differently. Before I got over my sexual shame, I had never experienced great sex because deep down I didn’t actually want sex. Recently I’ve been experiencing the sensation of “dialing it in” with my work. I used to be able to get into a groove but now it’s like pulling teeth. I’ve realized that I really dislike my job – both the workplace and the tasks – and I need to get out.

    It makes me wonder if your feeling of dialing it in isn’t about not trying hard enough but about trying too hard to do something that, at some level, you don’t really want to do right now.
    Sex Is My New Hobby (Zoë) recently posted…Sinful Sunday: legsMy Profile

    • Interesting perspective, Zoe. That’s my point, though: my heart wasn’t in it so it sucked. I’m not saying I’m going to force anything. I’m going to wait until my heart is ready so that I can fuck the way I really want to. And when I say “heart” I don’t mean I’m waiting for love, I’m just waiting until I feel stronger and less sad.

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