Image by the fabulous Stuart F Taylor
I know it’s a cliche when people share a post and just say ‘THIS’, but holy shit – THIS. When @thatdocphoenix sent this guest blog over to me it fully took my breath away. The totalising fuck that he describes in this piece is what sex is, to me. What sex is about, what it’s for, and why we do it. This. A million times, THIS.
The totalising fuck
My body is a better place to live than my brain, which is the inverse of the first forty years of my life. I try to get into it and out of my head as often as possible, whether through various forms of exercise and performance or through sex – which is both. You might call it dangerous hypersexuality or be disgusted at my physical needs. I would call it the best coping method that I have for all that life continues to throw at me.
Besides, if you excel at something, is it not natural to want to practice and extend that talent? It is considered uncouth and embarrassing to talk ourselves up in the sexual arena, but if someone who takes coitus seriously and puts a lot of thought and effort into being an excellent lay for everyone involved can’t acknowledge it as a skill as well as a hobby, who even are we? Where is the benefit in pretending it’s just a bodily function like excretion or breathing? It’s a creative and collaborative act, as important as any art form or Olympic sport.
When I fuck, I want everyone to feel safe and happy and have a good time without regret. This is vital not just in the moment, but in six hours, six days, six months or six years later. I want to feel seen and to feel thrilled and alive, and I also want that for everyone I play with. Sex should be a place where you can try new things without fear or coercion. It should feel natural to ask for exactly what you want and need without expecting a catastrophic response.
Talking about sex properly, in all its messy glory, is left to perverts like me, doctors and practitioners in therapeutic disciplines. I don’t want to know about my manager’s sex life – I have standards – but it is not within the bounds of social norms for most people to talk about it properly even in general terms with friends. There can be tutting about moral panics and BDSM practices, either pro or anti, and about sex positivity and body confidence. However, nothing too vulnerable or explicit may be part of the discussion.
There are very few people with whom I can talk about good sex feeling like flying, about the intense endorphins from someone taking my fist in their cunt and clenching around my wrist, about the heat of desire and what it does to my brain and body. I’m meant to talk about love and crushes and laugh off the hard stuff or accept it’s too private and visceral for conversation. But what if the hard stuff is the greatest sensory and emotional all-encompassing physical and emotional thing that it’s possible to feel? What if I want everyone to experience that, or at least know that it’s something they could access? What then?
My mind goes straight to the intricate details that are often thought to be prurient. I don’t have the permission of everyone I’ve fucked to give too much away, and I would never betray their confidence or rupture any trust between us. That said, I need to describe real experiences, even as I shield the person I shared them with from the public gaze. I don’t only want to talk about what I felt, but also what they indicated that they got from the experience.
I can feel my own cunt starting to swell as I am taken back to a sofa, watching a horny film with subtitles, and being sucked with such utter glee and devotion that it couldn’t help but be euphoric. Sucked for what felt like hours, and tongue-fucked, emerging for salt-sweet kisses and then more and more and more of all the sucking and teasing and throbbing and twitching as I squirted and flooded their face, their tits, my body, every surface with cum. I never stop coming, you see. There is no refractory period or end to the tides of orgasm. Only physical exhaustion and dehydration.
On the same sofa, sliding fingers into wet cunt and taking a nipple between my lips, and then my teeth. Pulling on the nipple with sharp bites and bathing it with delicate tongue. A crown of the head kiss. A cheek kiss. A bottom lip caught in violence and arousal, making out as if our lives depended on it because maybe they did. Curling my fingers over and over, adding more, stretching and bathing in the scent of honeysuckle cunt as my attention moved to the clitoris and extracting every sound of pleasure, pain and orgasm that I possible could. I am at my best when I am inside of another person, and I get pretty close to that when another person is inside me. Entwined. Soft bodies and hard bodies. Muscle and curve. Sweaty glissandos of leg on leg, arm on arm, cunt on cunt, cock on cock. Grinding and grinding and kissing and biting.
If this is not the highest point of existence, with compulsion and tenderness and filth and romance all at once then I don’t care for life at all.
The pleasures of the flesh will always exceed those that are experienced by the mind and senses without the full body’s enthusiastic involvement. The totalising fuck is the total pinnacle of all that I am, or ever will be, and I will find ways to give and take it until the day that I die.
