I don’t want sex. I’m off sex for now. The cold-hands-reaching-under-the-duvet-when-we-go-to-bed sex. The gentle-touches-along-my-thighs-while-I’m-sleepily-holding-your-cock sex. The sex that’s as much a part of bedtime as brushing your teeth.
I need fucking: passion and anger. I need ‘fuck me’ and ‘fuck you’. I need spitting and slapping and a grunted ‘good girl’ and that bit where you pull your cock out and push it deep into the crack of my arse.
I want sex, frequently. Perhaps not as frequently as I did when I was eighteen, but enough to understand that my mojo’s still intact. But God my mojo could do with a beating. It could do with a fuck that ends with a whimpered ‘thank you’ rather than a whispered ‘goodnight’. Sex is a desire – fucking is a need.
I need a fuck.
I can ask for one, of course, and I will – but I want to revel for a moment in this moment. The soft, affectionate moment before he knows that soft affection won’t cut it. It’s not hot enough. It’s not angry enough. It doesn’t fucking hurt enough.
If I see you slip your t-shirt over your head one more time, and take your boxers off before you join me, naked, in bed, I will sob. I don’t want you to remove your clothes like it’s the end of the day – I want you to fuck me like it’s the end of the universe. A stars collapse and planets collide and the US President makes his inevitable heartwarming speech about humanity’s battle for survival, I want you to fuck me semi-clothed on the bathroom floor with all the romance of a rutting mongrel.
Grab my hair to give you purchase. Squeeze my nipples to make me beg. Put a belt in my mouth and hold the ends like a bridle. Pay no attention whatsoever to the back of my neck, or the soft parts that you want to kiss romantically.
Stuff your fingers, your dick, your hands wherever they’ll go, and make me look into your face while you screw me with them. Tell me I’m a bad girl but – and this is very, very important – treat me like a bad girl too. Don’t call me a slut – make me your slut. Ruin any hopes I had of cuddles and kisses before bed.
This isn’t a desire – it’s a need. It’s the reset button on my sexual energy. It’s the only thing which drags me out of a low, listless anti-sex drive and into the world I’m happy in. Please fuck me. Use me. Hurt me. Make me cry.
Or I will cry.