When I first got my Vibrator, the sensations were so powerful. It was vibrant, full colour and the orgasms were like ecstatic cataclysms that completely took me out of this world and into this state of heightened bliss.
I found myself turning it up until I was using it at 100%, when the colour started to fade. I started to be able to think whilst I came, instead of being a screaming, gasping, gibbering mess.
Then my ice dragon arrived. I toyed and, with my vibe in my right hand, vibrations on my clitoris and my left working that silicone into my body, the colours ‘popped’ again.
I’d peaked Kilimanjaro, and it left me in a state of exhaustion. Total bliss.
It was slow to fade. But it did fade. The colours desaturating like an old TV. I still came, it was still enjoyable, but it didn’t have that intensity that left me totally spent.
And now, I feel like I peaked the Himalayas. I flushed from the tip of my head to my knees. I shuddered and screamed, totally lost in the complete and utter rush.
But now. Even though the gear is the same, I am stuck at base camp. The weather conditions aren’t the same but anything else feels like I have been flicked back into black and white TV. I still try, it still feels good. But the excitement and vibrancy has disappeared.
I am terrified, in a way, of what happens when I finally peak Everest. When I push it to the highest levels and find that I can’t go higher. What then?
What happens when there is no new territory, no thrill of excitement that comes with something new.

I want a hitachi wand. I’m terrified, but I want one and the intensity it promises.

S told me to be careful not to eclipse sex, but that isn’t possible.
Sex is a different dimension. It is an immersion.
Another body, tangible and tactile. Another person’s energy that combines with yours. Their pleasure and your pleasure that heightens and enhances the other’s senses.
A hand on my hip, fingers digging into my flesh, weight on my hip bone.
Lips on my lips, on my throat, on my breasts, on my nipples, sucking, licking, biting. Their skin on my skin, my fingers pressing into their flesh, nails catching skin.
The noises, their notes of pleasure, like an aria of ecstasy, mingling with my cacophony of sound.
Taste, the taste of them, their scent. Individual and distinctive. Their sweat mingling with mine as our writhing bodies come together.
Their release, as they hold me, hands grasping my shoulders as they shudder and groan, up to the hilt in me, their body tightly entwined with mine.

It is something that cannot be replaced. It cannot be emulated. And it cannot be eclipsed.



Miseducation, unlearning, rewriting, releasing

Sex is not a goddamn performance.
Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.
It should not require confidence.
Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.
Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.
You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.
It’s not about being “good in bed.”
It’s about being happy.
One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual
I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.
What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you.
Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.
Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be.
I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this
I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want.
It’s originality.
It’s passion.
It’s joy.
Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.
I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.
“Good in bed,” what.
You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.
Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.
This isn’t a test.

– Lee M. (One of my friends on Facebook)

When I talk about ‘good sex’, I think I may be using the wrong terminology. I think what I really mean, is ‘enjoyable sex’. And to me, enjoyable sex is when two (or more) people feel comfortable in themselves and take pleasure in each other without hesitation or restraint. (Unless it is the good kind of restraint.)

To me, ‘bad sex’ is non-cohesive sex. And what I mean by that is if you aren’t taking true pleasure in each other, you’re just going through motions or doing what you ‘think’ each other should like without actually bothering to understand. Not taking notice of the other person’s reactions and not letting yourself respond openly.

While I also believe that planned/thoughtful sex can be lots of fun, I also believe that sex is not like some mapped out dance that needs to run like clockwork. It is a thing in it’s own; almost alive.

If he wants to grab a handful of my hair or grasp my nipples and leaves love bites on my shoulders, then he should. Because there is nothing that delights me more than someone taking unbridled pleasure from the joining of our bodies.

For me, the best, most enjoyable sex is the kind where you surrender yourself to your desire and fuck.