There is something about being manic that sets my self on fire.
Love and sex.
Not ever going to claim that they’re the same, that one leads to the other, or that one must exist for the other to exist.
I only once fucked someone that I’d just met – the mood was there, and it felt right. A great majority of the great fucking I’ve done has been with people who I have some sort of connection with – it may just be sexual chemistry and some nice conversation. However, for me, the best overall sex I’ve had has been with the people I get along with well, and have had time to figure out.
It is all about the fucking sensual. The sights, the sounds, the tastes, the textures, of someone wrapping themselves in someone else’s pleasure, with the full participation of all. Arousal building on arousal, spiraling in itself and expanding to cover the other. Give and give and take, and give all rolled in itself like a burrito. The slick bodies desperately seeking the other for release. This lust reflects a lust, a gratefulness for living, a desire to join the temporary oneness of pleasure.
But also it is just plain out fucking. Pushing someone on the wall and kissing all the air out of them, so they’re gasping for breath. Teasing that spot that drives the other crazy with need. Pulling and pushing. Skin against skin. Sweet salty sweat. Pain that causes very sweet, soaking delights. Mouths coaxing pleasure from slick places, fingers pulling out climaxes from hidden places. Genitals touching, rubbing, sliding against each other. Climax! Maybe more.
These kinds of sex can both be better with someone I know I know.
Purple Penguin 