Hot Sex

I had really good sex the other night.

He knew how to take his time and go slow. He knew what to do and when. He knew how to bite, how to thrust with his tongue, when to push and when to be gentle.

It was perfect.

Photo by Phillippe Leroyer

The most striking thing to me was how smoothly it went from beginning to end. We flirted throughout the night, at a party, each of us giving the other the signals that let the person know, “I like you.” I touched his back conspiratorially whenever we stood near each other. When we danced, he nuzzled my neck and I pressed into him. “I’m interested.” When he was talking to other women and I passed by, he caught my hand ever-so-briefly with his. “I want you.” We took shots that involved brown sugar, and later in the night he licked some off my fingers. “I’m ready.”

Then, at the end of the night, he approached me. “How are you doing?” he asked, “I’m fading.” I said I was, too, but I didn’t have a plan for this part. I was staying with a friend, which meant I was sharing her bed. There wasn’t anywhere for me to offer that we go (but you can bet I’d been thinking about it). Then he said, “You want to walk me home? I live four blocks away and it can get scary out there.” (Ha. We were in Cambridge). Then he added, “We could have some fancy beer,” in reference to a conversation earlier in the evening. I replied, with an amused smile, “I doubt we’ll get that far.” Then I looked into his face and thought about it – no, felt about it. “Yes,” I replied. “My body’s a yes. I’m a yes.”

So I got my coat and we snuck out and walked the four blocks back to his place, mostly in silence. But all of a sudden I was a little nervous. And I’ve noticed that I tend to fill silence with words when I’m nervous, so this time I tried instead to just walk and breathe. Instead of talking I simply felt the intoxicating cocktail of anxiety and nervousness and delicious anticipation and exhaustion that comes after wine and friends and laughter and dancing and flirtation and chocolate.
 

Photo by Roberto F.

When we got back to his place, he turned on the kitchen light. We started kissing. After taking my top off he said, “How about a candle instead?” which a) made me think he does this a lot and that it’s kind of a playa’ move, but b) strongly appealed to me because candlelight really is nicer. So he lit a large, three-wicked candle and turned off the light and suddenly everything was imbued with a soft, flickering glow. It was beautiful. It was also beautiful for me to not have to be the one to say or do anything. The simple act of stopping us to change the light showed his comfort with the situation, his faith that I’d stick around even if we ‘broke’ our connection for a moment.

Next we leapt cleanly over the hurdle I always face with men: letting them know that while I love sex and intercourse, I don’t do blowjobs. I find them astonishingly more intimate than any other sex act, and I save them solely for men about whom I’m extremely serious. I do, however, love receiving oral sex, so if they genuinely enjoy doing that, they are more than welcome to. Out of courtesy’s sake, I just need them to know I won’t be returning the favor. I did this a little bit more awkwardly than usual (I believe this involved me actually using the phrase, “go all the way,” which upon reflection is both absurd and anachronistic). However, he appeared unfazed by this phase of the evening, which left both pleased and relieved.

We moved together slowly. He put me on the bed and took off my skirt (so tiny as to be more like the idea of a skirt), then started kissing all up and down my front. He bit my breasts exactly the way I like, which is hard enough that I can feel it, but not so hard that it hurts. Like many women, my actual nipples are numb, so it takes more sensation than usual for me to feel something. I have to actually be bitten for there to be pleasure, but when there is, it’s like a button that goes immediately to my sex center.

Then he flipped me onto my stomach.

This was exciting for several reasons. The biggest one was that he didn’t just go for it. He said my ass looked sexy in my thong, then kissed me – slowly –  all over. It was so hot when he kissed my neck, my ears, I almost couldn’t stand it. I was moaning and I was wet. Then I loved that he said, “I’m going to put on a condom now so I don’t have to worry about it later.” I was thrilled for two reasons: one, I didn’t have to deal with it – I feel a little bad about this, but I really hate putting condoms on. I know some men find it hot when the woman does it, but I much prefer when I don’t even have to think about it and it’s just done. Two, if he were confident enough to put a condom on before actual intercourse, it signaled that he was confident that he could keep it up for a relatively long time. This made me happy.

After teasing me on my back for a while longer, appreciating what I looked like and spending real time heightening sensation with light touch, he flipped me over again. I thought this was because he didn’t want the first sex we had to be doggy style. But then he said, “I want you to rub me …” which I found a little odd, considering he was already wearing protection. Then he finished the thought: “… against your clit.”

Nice. To my relief, he wasn’t asking for a hand job (I have an aversion to hand jobs in general because I always end up feeling inadequate, as aware as I am that no matter how well I do it, my skills will never even approach those of his own hand). Further, it meant that he was aware of me and my pleasure. It was an elegant solution: he didn’t go down on me, didn’t even finger me a little, but could turn me on in this way while simultaneously being (quite) involved.

However, what I really wanted wasn’t to rub him on me, or even touch myself; I wanted him inside me already. When I told him as much he said, “Put me where you want me,” (which was also pretty hot).

So I did. And it was slick and strong and felt like heaven. He wasn’t very big and normally that matters to me, but he was so good at taking his time and doing it well and I was so excited that it didn’t matter, it just felt good. The teasing and tickling, the obvious self-control that he possessed and his ability to hold it in and touch me slowly had gotten me so wet that I was ready for anything. Some of it was that he was good at what he’d been doing, but some of it was literally just the act of waiting.

Then – and this might have been my favorite thing – he said something remarkable. After going in and out in a measured, erotic rhythm for a short while he said, “Open your eyes.”

I could tell he wasn’t saying this for effect or as a cheesy line. He wanted that connection, that unique and intense intimacy (there’s no other word for it) – available to lovers almost to the exclusion of else. It is, in fact, one of the peak experiences a human being can have: sharing the act of physical union in a conscious fashion.

It was also special because it was as if he were saying, “I like you. I remember who you are, and I want to be connected to you while we do this.” Closing one’s eyes during sex can be a way of avoiding the other person, making the experience entirely individual. Yes, I’m with you, but my pleasure is my own. This moment is my own. And in many ways, that’s what this was: we were both attracted to each other as sexual beings. We knew this wasn’t ‘going anywhere’ and didn’t have to mean something – it could mean just exactly what it was, which was exquisite sex. But there was also the fact that we got along and respected each other; and beyond that, in that moment what I felt was that regardless of who we knew ourselves to be, we were both human beings having an extraordinary experience together.

After a moment he murmured, “I want to slow it down.” He didn’t want to come yet, which was considerate and also showed a certain amount of sexy self-control. So he stopped thrusting and simply held himself inside me, which felt incredible. And in the end, I chose not to go over into orgasm. When he came, I felt complete. Not overfed or high, the way you feel after a huge dinner, but complete – the way you feel after a meal at which you’ve had enough, but haven’t stuffed yourself. It’s the feeling of satisfaction.

It takes 45 minutes for a woman to come to full arousal. The first time I read this it didn’t make sense to me because I know I’ve been turned on in way shorter an amount of time. But upon reflection, I believe it. Because full arousal means full arousal – every organ is inflamed, every cell is open and ready, every moment feels breathtaking and almost agonizing in its fullness. Full arousal is the kind of arousal that has you panting with eagerness, that panting that many of us haven’t experienced since teenagehood, when making out for hours had to suffice.

Perhaps we should try to go back to those days more often. I know that I myself am not particularly skilled at going slow, but I’m wild – passionately, fervently, ardently appreciative – about men who do. It is eons more stimulating and electrifying to be with a man who is deliberate and lingers with his touch than it is for me to have to be the one to slow things down, however I can.

My memories of the evening are crystalline and vast. I remember shivering, tingling kisses on my back. I remember the involuntary arching of my body as it rode a wave of desire. I remember candlelight, a male voice in my ear, and a sense of both expansion and collapse. Mostly, though, I recall the almost unbearably delicious sensation of surrendering into being with a man who knew how to be both present and in control.

When I don’t have to be in charge, then it’s really, really Hot Sex.