No, not mine, and not necessarily yours. After three months without physical contact I have lost interest in other bodies. I used to love the feel of another’s skin, the stubble of a man brushing against my cheek as I kissed him, the smell of arousal, even the aroma of sweat as I made love on a muggy evening, the taste of a bell end glistening with pre-come as I took it into my mouth, the musk of a cunt, juicy with arousal, the joy of burying my face in lush pubic hair as I go down on her, the feel of her tongue against my finger as she licks her juice.
All these things I have enjoyed, and my body in turn has given pleasure to my lovers. And yet it all seems so long ago, no more real than the smut I read, the stories I write. The stories. I have moved my sex life into my head, I write and write and write, not always for publication, but always to get off, to experience the orgasms that come from the mind, to make sense of all those bodies and the things I did with them, before everything is lost.
I am used to this now. The urge to write is irresistible, I fear the bodies, imperfect as mine is imperfect, sweaty as mine is sweaty, sagging as mine sags, that will come between me and my imagination. I think them vile, I push them away. But I cannot do this for ever. My lover today sent me a picture of his cock, as yet untasted by me. But taste it I will, for I must. It took me decades to love my body, nearly as long to love the bodies of others. The language of these bodies is another language, once foreign, still not entirely familiar. I cannot afford to forget it.
You have gone. While I was in that half world between sleep and consciousness you got up, put your clothes on and left the small hotel room, shutting the door softly behind you. I was aware of you leaving and sank back into sleep, reliving the night, reliving sex like I had never had sex before, sex with the first woman I have known who was assertive, told me what she wanted, showed me the buttons to press, the first woman to guide me as I took my first steps in exploring the female body.
Does that sound odd? I am 42 after all and 15 years married. I am a father……and yet for all these years sex was a thing I did out of duty. I never got up close with a vulva, a clit, never explored these lands with my tongue, and perceived that mysterious beauty. I fucked you too, hard and brutally the way you said you wanted me too. I remember how you put a little Chardonnay on my cock and took it into your mouth, making me hard as you worked me so delicately with your tongue. This was all new to me. I had never imagined how sex could be more than something that lasted five minutes, get hard, penetrate, ejaculate and then roll over and go to sleep. Sex as a mutual exploration of bodies, sex as a source of pleasure that went far beyond the orgasm, or even how the orgasmic sensation could be heightened by taking our time, building up slowly, these were new things to me. New and delightful. Maybe I will never have sex with her again but she has taught me so much.
I reach for my cock and masturbate as I fantasise about the sex I have just had. I come and roll over to grind against the sheet as I ejaculate. I rub and grind until my groin is completely wet with my come. And here was another discovery: that the best wanks ever come after sex. Yes, we will do this again. Because we must. I text you and go for a shower.