I was never really one for sexting, in the times Before Him. In recent years, the closest I’ve come to a horny text is sending a sext from the bedroom if I’m post-bath soft and wanting dick, or messaging to let him know that I’ve finished wanking and he’s welcome to come on up. One of the things that scares me about new encounters is – absurdly, bizarrely – the worry that they might need me to stretch my thumbs and engage in written conversation in between dates. Yeah, I know: I’m a sex blogger. I should be good at dating communication. But perhaps it’s the fact that I’m meant to be good at it that leads to so much dread. Where expectations run high, failure is almost guaranteed.
This is part two of three – catch up with part 1, Good Friends, here.
I needn’t have worried about the texting, it turns out. Because what I’d forgotten is that texting itself can be part and parcel of a really decent fuck. He messages me a few days before we meet. Not to pressure me to swap nudes or engage me in ‘what are you wearing?’ but to ask what kind of fuck I fancy.
That’s the start of it: the opening dialogue. What do you want to do?
It’s a simple enough question, but it opens so many fun doors. What do I want to do? My heart and my cunt are usually both laser-focused on dick. Brutal fucks, PIV, porny and hard and as vicious as you like without causing injury.
But that’s just what I’m used to, and I’ve become so used to it that I don’t want to take that stuff as read. So when this guy asks me ‘what do you want?’ I think on it long and hard.
Then surprise myself by saying:
‘Make outs. I really want to make out.’
That’s what I want. Perhaps it’s because I’m shy about my body, having not shown it to many people for the last few years. Or perhaps it’s because the other night, when we first cemented the idea of the two of us fucking, the thrumming of my pulse in my throat had made me wonder what it’d be like to have someone kiss and lick it. Perhaps I really do want to take things slow. Who knows?
But what I want in that moment is make outs. I want him to lie me down on the bed and snog the literal fuck out of me. Touch me all over with wandering hands, slipping his palm up my stomach and under my bra. I want to wrap my legs around him and frot against his thighs. I want to run my own hands over his skin, sliding the hem of his t-shirt up and the waistband of his jeans down so I can grab his flesh with my own hands while we touch tongues and moan and get horny.
I want wetness and hardness to be joyful in and of themselves, not means-to-an-end or preparations-for-later. I want snogging and frotting and fumbling and exploration. Slow stripping and glasses clinking and spit and messed-up hair. Hands and tongues and thighs and crotches, all engaged in one simple task: making the fuck out.
So that’s what I tell him. And he likes that, so we continue in that vein: he tells me what he wants to do, and I reply, and we switch back and forth with the odd ‘fuck yeah’ or ‘I’m horny for that’ or ‘maybe we could also…?’
He sends me pictures – sexy, tempting, achy pictures of himself in the bath with a rock-solid cock, staring down into the camera with eyes that say ‘get the fuck into bed immediately.’
He asks me what words I like, and what I’d like to be called. I ask the same, and tell him ‘anything, call me anything – say whatever falls naturally out of your mouth.’
He’s very very good at this: the dating communication thing. So good that even though I feel rusty by comparison, I can slip fairly easily into asking questions and giving replies. Allowing myself to relax into a brand new headspace: one where the things I like aren’t taken for granted, so I have to put myself out there and actually say.
I’d love to suck your cock, if you’re up for it. If you fancy a fuck, I’d love that too.
We go back and forth for a while like this, each message opening new doors and offering tempting ideas. Words, actions, reactions: we swap plans for what we might do, and things we’re each horny for, and I realise it’s been a long time since I got this far into the detail.
I like the detail. *gestures at blog* The detail is kinda my jam. I’d left ‘sexts’ in a folder in my brain marked ‘awkward’ because in the past they were usually ways to relive memories and events. A dribble of extra work in the afterglow, rather than a core part of the build-up to the main event. I used to see sexts like Boxing Days, whereas these ones are more like Christmas Eves.
Not memories but plans. Breadcrumbs. Marking a train of horny ideas which pick out images in my mind, guiding me through the evenings that will lead to the night that we fuck.
Each time his name pops up on my phone, I grin.
This post on dating communication is part 2 of 3. Part 3 will go up next Sunday – subscribe if you’d like alerts when new posts go up.