Every time I see Peter I am surprised.
“You and your underwear never cease to amaze me,” I laughed one day as he stood in my office with his neatly pressed khakis around his thighs. “Are you wearing any?? I can’t tell!”
We fell into each others arms in a fit of laughter, his camouflaged briefs pressed against my belly.
Moments later we were on the floor careful not to make any noise. His sock-clad naked body pushing into my clothed one, his mouth on mine until we both came in muffled cries.
We’ve been able to get together roughly once a week for weeks now. A serendipitous run-in at the grocery store one afternoon reminded us both of our mutual admiration for one another and we’ve been going steady ever since.
He tirelessly listens to my rambling stories. “I like them,” he says simply when I apologize for going on too long yet again.
He’s devastatingly good-looking and I can’t seem to stop myself from telling him how damn pretty he is. He works a blue-collar job that requires him to roam about the city and it’s not lost on the women whose homes he has to visit. He has at least a handful of Penthouse Letter quality stories of his own.
“This one time a college-aged girl answers the door completely topless,” one story began.
“So yeah, I banged her on her couch before I left,” it ended.
Age has no effect on diminishing his appeal to the fairer sex, either. “Aren’t you a tall drink of water!” a wrinkled little old lady once said.
He listens to my escapades, my feminist rants, all the lessons I’ve learned about sex and dating, my philosophies and outlooks on life. He takes care of his father and is friends with his mother. His guilty (and secret) pleasure is cooking shows of all kinds. We share a culinary vocabulary and interest not commonly found. He’s home every night by 6 or 7 like his girlfriend expects, but he is open to any and all adventures before the clock strikes.
When Peter and I first began fooling around 3 years ago his erections were rarely a part of our experience. Simply put, like so many other men, condoms made him wilt.
What made him different, though, was that without missing a beat he put his hands and mouth on me from stem to stern until I could take no more. Then we’d cuddle and talk as if time stood still, sweaty and his face reeking of me. I basked in his attention and freedom from toxic masculine expectations.
Orgasm is fun. Penetration is fun. But what’s even better is a pleasurable experience. Pleasure from being seen, pleasure in being devoured, pleasure in being tangled and touched and tantalized.
When sex is about rushing blood to a piece of flesh it’s diminished – literally – into a sum of its parts.
We fuck during the day, sober as church mice. There’s no hiding or obscuring each other, no soft candlelight to hide my rolls or dimples, my little brown asshole. I am exposed to his hungry gaze in every way. And I am blessed with consuming every inch of his long, lithe body.
I get lost in watching the muscles along his rib cage shimmer with each thrust, the cuts and shadows down along his arms and shoulders braced above me. And what I’ve learned is that when he sees my eyes, dark blue and true, his pleasure seems to spike.
I can sense it in my body, see it on his face. When I show up below him and allow him in to my person with open eyes it’s the single hottest thing I can do. And it has nothing to do with his penis. It has to do with me enjoying myself.
There is a cultural belief that men are simple, that all they need is a willing partner and he’ll be good to go. Gay, straight, bi, it doesn’t matter. The trope is that men are “red-blooded” and therefore “easy” to turn on. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Men are complicated, magical creatures. Sensitive, complex, afraid. They carry a tremendous burden to be expected to know everything about sex for both themselves and their partners, and those partners erroneously rely on his hardon as proof that they’re attractive or “doing it right.”
I cannot imagine the weight of that expectation. It would cripple me.
Sex isn’t a performance, it’s a partnership, an experience. No one is putting on a fucking show – no pun intended. We are doing it together, to one another for our own personal gains. That’s the way it should be. I use you to get me off and you use me, all tied together, as one, willing our bodies to be conduits of pleasure for the other.
I have never thought men were simple, but I have certainly relied on their belief that they were.
I’ve silently demanded a stud in my bed and been disappointed when they couldn’t deliver. They expected to perform for me and I let them think that’s what they needed to do.
I wonder how my sex life may have been different had I stepped in and said, “Honey, I’m part of this, too.” Would they have listened to me? Would they have even heard me?? Enough men have yelled at their limp dicks or left in a shameful rush for me to wonder if that were true. I promise you, I’ve tried a handful of times.
These days I’m approaching each liaison I have with the intent to connect and be present for a whole person, not just his erection. It’s enabled me to have much better sex than I had been having. My young friend, Walker, for example. The Aussie, The Doctor, Peterrrrrr, the true definition of a friend with benefits.
It’s amazing what can happen when two people actually treat each other as more than only a vagina or penis.