My blogging on orgasms is seemingly contradictory. On the one hand, I talk about wanting to orgasm more frequently and more satisfyingly yet on the other, I talk about how orgasm isn’t the be all and end all and I can leave them.
But both things are true. I more recently discovered that I like vanilla sex. Perhaps that’s more a reflection of being comfortable in my own skin and not being so scared to ask for what I want. Or that I’m able to relax more and not worry or second guess myself. It certainly isn’t the boring, prescriptive list of motions that I used to begrudgingly tolerate in a series of monogamous relationships.
Although I really am turned on, and want to come, orgasm is virtually impossible. The positions just aren’t quite right, or my focus is elsewhere or… well, something’s missing. That ‘thing’ that will push me over the edge. The ‘something’ that stops the hamster wheel of my brain in its tracks, freeing my brain and body to just experience and feel.
The problem is that vanilla is nice. The truth is that nice is not enough for me to come. I’ve changed. I need more. And I can’t reconnect my wiring and more importantly, I don’t want to.
I’ve discovered the kind of sex that drives me over that edge and I love it. It excites me. It makes me feel connected to myself. It forces me to let go and just be.
But vanilla fucking is connected fucking and I don’t want to lose that either. I want the best of both worlds.
Sex that works for me is grabby, pinchy, slappy, bitey. Not sharp pain but deeper rolling pain. Not quick grabs with fingertips but whole handfuls that don’t quite let go. Bites that aren’t all teeth but combine kissing and sucking. The sort that leaves love bites. The sort that can be turned into harder pain in a heartbeat. Pinches that aren’t quick twists but start as rolls of flesh between thumb and fingertip, slowly getting harder. Labia. Nipples. Inner thighs. Initial pain that translates to pleasure before the pressure is released. Deep grabs of my nipples. Not the tips but deeper down. Like you’re playing directly with my cunt. Pinches that make me wet and gasping with need.
Hands grasping the back of my neck, pushing me into the bed. Hand resting on my throat, a threat of what could happen. Hand hard over mouth. Fingers pushing into my mouth. Deep bruising kisses that steal my breath until I’m moaning against your mouth, ready to explode.
And the words. Words designed to humiliate. Words that shouldn’t ever be used but for the occasion. Behaviours that are never acceptable but for the sheer sake of reducing me to a wet, quivering, bundle of need.
And that’s before I even think of control. The manhandling of me into position. The whispered threats of what’ll happen if I misbehave. Telling me what you’re going to do to me. Telling me it’ll hurt. Telling me to be a good girl. Tying me down and making me want. Teasing, probing. Not allowing me to buck and writhe against you, pushing me back down with warning slaps. Not allowing me to come until you say I’m ready. Making me want. Making me need. Enjoying my desire.
It’s not always all of that at once. I like the variety. And not knowing quite what’s going to happen. Like anything, there’s too much of a good thing. Sometimes I want the pain. Sometimes the restraint or control. And at times, I just need to be taken over and dealt with. Anything and everything.
How vanilla sex meets kinky fuckery, I don’t know. But there must be a compromise.