Tonight’s Masturbation Monday post, aside from being posted on a Tuesday, is not the analysis of poly-relationship-related-revelations that I had planned. Instead it’s short and brought to you by my enthusiastic overuse of the word filthy.
I had to change my shirt this morning; it smelt of sex. To be honest, I’d probably have worn the shirt if it hadn’t been so creased and rumpled from being packed super tightly so I could fit as many sex-positive books in my bag as possible. I liked the fact it smells of sex. After I’ve washed the come off my tits and sterilised my sex toys, I don’t have many mementos of all the brilliant sex I had, apart from a head full of new filthy thoughts to wank over. The shirt was tangible proof that I could lift to my face and breath in the memories of getting fucked.
It was easy to pick another shirt to go with my outfit, but it was much harder to stop thinking about sex.
Sometimes I think that the more time I spend being a good little cock-sucking slut only makes me more eager for cock, and the more time I spend making pretty girls come only makes me more enthusiastic about saying filthy things to them while they beg for permission to orgasm. This means that while I’m not quite as desperate for sex as I was when I was in denial before I went on my kinky adventure, I am still craving it. But there is something different about tonight.
Usually the sex I want is filthy, but not tonight. It’s not that I don’t want sex, just want the comfort and closeness of human touch. I definitely want sex, I’m just not craving humiliation and pain and dirty words. I don’t want to be used: I want to touch and be touch, I want to feel.
I’m thinking about firm hands pinning me down, but not to hold me in place so I can be used: to make sure I’m grounded in the moment and not thinking about anything but what they’re doing to me. I like the idea of every touch being slow and steady and making me very aware of my body. I would be wet, but not impatient or squirming against the sheets. I want fingers tracing constellations on my back, and hands squeezing my arse and my tits… but slowly, carefully.
I’m imagining rope being trailed over my skin. Not to tie me up so I can be teased and denied, but just because I like the way the rope feels against my skin and she likes how it looks there. I’d like to kiss my way up her thighs, to bury my face in her soft pubes and breathe in the heady smell of her cunt. Then I’d like to suck his cock while she stokes my hair. I don’t want a rough, fast face-fucking, I want the sensual experience of a cock in my mouth.
Yes, that’s the word. Sensual. I want sensual, just for tonight. It’s not a word I like, but it’s what I want tonight.
I want to be kissed; I want to be kissed with almost aching slowness. I want to lie between them, each of them tipping my head to face them when they decide that it’s their turn. Long, lingering kisses that I will remember. There would be soft murmurs in low voices, slow words that remind me that I am safe. And there might be tears too, because tonight I think it might help me to cry. That would be cathartic, and they would hold me while I cry. After the tears, sleep would come easily while I lay between them. In the morning, my bed would smell of sex.
I’m not sure how I’d leave it, because while tonight I want everything to be sensual, tomorrow I’m sure I will want to be a dirty little bitch again.
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Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.