Waiting for something exciting, and turning it down.

I have issues with saying no. Because you never know when everything is going to fall into place. What if the thing you've been looking for is just around that bend in the path where you've just said 'actually, no, let's turn back around now'? So I don't say no, but not necessarily yes, and I just wait for that magical connection to appear. For everything to fall into place. Or, for the love of god, for it to be over already. I hadn't decided whether to include the following post on this blog until I stumbled across Puddle of Ink, where the author had tackled the same issue from a different angle. It hit home a little, and put me in a honest, bare-my-soul mood.
She writes-

     "I stopped saying “no” a long time ago. Because it was never heeded, so why bother? I tried to convince myself that I didn’t care if I was just a sex object, someone to screw after a milkshake at the local Steak & Shake. Except that failing to voice my objection brought with it its own set of troubles—namely, a feeling of complicity. After all, it’s not rape if you don’t say no, right?"

for the whole post, go here.

The following is something I wrote (it's wordy, be patient) while trying to understand and justify the breakdown of my last relationship, the one i figured was the One. For the last 6 months of our over 2 years together, sex had fallen off the rails. Not because we weren't having it, but because I'd suddenly started to hate it, and fear it. Not something I saw coming, or something I understood. It's like eating peanuts all your life, really really loving peanut butter sandwiches and snickers, then one day, tucking into round 2 of a peanut butter extravaganza,
Boom.

Anaphylactic shock.

 

Now I just have to wait for some one to invent a magic EpiPen for sex phobia.

 

 

.............................................................

 

I want to be selfish. I want to enjoy sex. No guilt. Abandon myself to it, not care, not worry.

I want to feel as if the person I’m with adores me, wants me to feel beautiful. I don’t want to be the object with which they fulfil their sexual needs. I want to be the goddess. I want to be the subject of my own fantasy.

I am not a doormat.

I moment I adore is the feeling of them coming. That momentary power that comes with knowing you’ve caused their ultimate weakness. But it comes with a sense of huge relief too – that it’s over. That I can take the false smile off my face. That I can relax into my own body again. Hide in my silence. Itching to feel like they do, but never asking for it. Wishing it wasn’t the end.

Sex is primarily a male pleasure. Jealous as I am of those women who can orgasm through the physicality of penetration, I know I’ll never join their ranks. And perhaps I’m kidding myself that a man will ever understand that difference in experience. That great sex for them is just a motion to me, leaving my heart disconnected and deadening every nerve. That half pain, half pleasure, wishing something would happen, wanting it harder, faster, just in case there’s a wall, an invisible boundary that one day I’ll burst through and suddenly understand that great mystery that is sex.

I don’t know what I want. I want them to give me something I haven’t felt. Something beyond what I can do for myself and the void that opens and engulfs everything after. Le petit mort. The little death. What is it? What is the sensation that sends us over the edge? If you break it down, what is the pleasure? Where does this earth rocking sensation come from? The temporary cramp in an over abused inch of flesh. The dull crashing ache of longing, and sadness. Is this it? Is there nothing more? Just this ragged hole. A moth beating its wings against flame to get to the deepest black beyond the light.

I want someone to disconnect me from my mind. I want to not be waiting for it, not urging my orgasm on. Holding myself rigid, tensing every muscle. I want to relish every touch. I want to dare to prolong it, not worry I’ll lose it. Not give in to the inevitable – that I won’t come. That nothing’s going to happen, so you might as well give up, mate. Move on to the main event. Just fuck me. Get it over with. Embarrassed by my body, embarrassed by it’s slowness to respond to their touch. Ashamed that it won’t instantly blossom under their hand. Resentful to myself that ultimately, every time, if it happens at all, my elusive orgasm is for them.

Look – look what you can do. Look what a lover you are. Hear my breath turn ragged. Feel me bucking under you. See my spine arch, my hands clench. What a clever boy.

I want to do it for me. I want to feel it for me. I want them to want it for me, without them even realising it. I want it to be gift to me, not something they take from me.

I want someone to find the magic touch, the secret sequence of events, the touch paper to the deep primal urge inside. I want to be kissed. I don’t want to be rushed. I want an hour to go by before they make it further down than my waist. I want them to allow me the time to nearly come without the invasion of their fingers in my cunt. I cannot come from penetration. But adore me, just kiss my spine, my eyelids, focus on my breasts, and I think I could. But I can never stop them. I can never say no, don’t. Not yet. I never say make me see stars. Drive me wild. Make me forget who you are. Make me know nothing but the longing, the anticipation. Do anything. Kiss me anywhere. Tease me through my clothes. Brush over me. Tell me you want me, but don’t take me. Not yet. Let me float in nothingness. Make me come without splaying me wide open, going for the obvious, pinning me like an insect on card. I am not a science experiment.

Listen to my orgasm calling to you... I am not textbook. I am not one repetitive movement. I am not one place. I am spirit. I am at the ends of her hair. I am in her spine. I am in her eyes reflected in yours. I am the whispered desires in her ear. I am in the curve of her breast, the catch of a nipple between teeth. I am wrapped in her veins, curled in her ribcage.

Men come with their bodies. Women come with their minds.



Don’t touch me there, reach deeper. Reach into my soul.