It’s late in the evening, and we’ve already shagged once. The kind of sex that left my legs so trembly I felt it in my thighs as we walked down the street to get dinner. Idly wondering, as we made our way there, if passers-by could tell by my messy hair and unsteady gait that I’d just been thoroughly fucked. We went for pints and food. Played pub Jenga on a table outside. I sipped my cider and perved on him shamelessly: enjoying the view of his steady hands carefully pulling bricks from the rickety tower, the way his t-shirt stretched against his taut arms as he reached up to place them on top. Fixating on how the collar opened slightly to flash of the edge of his sexy tattoo.
One of the things I crave at the moment is familiarity. Closeness. Intimacy that allows you to be playful with each other. I have that with my friends, of course, but with new men it takes time to build connections. And I enjoy the fact that this man is not technically ‘new’. He may not know me as well as my friends, but he knows me better than others who make my legs do that trembling thing. Well enough that it doesn’t come as a surprise when I tell him how hot it is to watch him playing Jenga, or joke about how dark his humour can be. When I say I crave ‘familiarity’, I think what I mean is ‘playfulness.’ The ability to take risks: gently tease someone for their quirks; blurt out ‘that’s hot’ or ‘you’re pretty’; make jokes that would make no sense to strangers.
On this night, after Jenga and dinner, this man took one of those risks. He issued a challenge so audacious and terrifying that if it had come from almost anyone else I’d have crumbled into dust.
So here it is.
Intimacy, risks and HOLY SHIT ARGH
We’re making out. I’m naked. He’s topless and pressed up against me, two fingers working the wetness of my cunt and clit. I’m so desperate to get fucked again.
He towers over me so I always feel like I have to be on tiptoes when we kiss, and the very act of tilting back my head to look up at him turns me into a tiny mewling kitten. His hands feel good, and the kiss feels good, and I whimper a little because I badly want him to fuck me.
“Say ‘please’,” he tells me, and I do. I tell him ‘please‘ and look up into his eyes, proud of myself for being a good girl and doing exactly as I’m told. But it turns out ‘please’ isn’t nearly enough, he’s got a far larger gauntlet to throw down.
“You can do better than that,” he tells me, and I tremble – equal parts excited and nervous: “tell me how you want me to fuck you.”
In that moment my brain short circuits. I’ve forgotten how words work. My mind is already scrambled and horny and barely able to splutter out ‘please fuck me‘… now he wants a full-on story?
But wait – it gets worse! Because the next words out of his mouth are…
“Come on, you’re a professional writer.”
Absolute stone-cold bastard. It’s brilliant! Terrifying! Appalling! Audacious! Smack bang on the line between praise and piss-take.
In that moment I almost combust. Shatter into atoms that then scatter onto the winds, abandoning hope and life and everything purely to sidestep the horror of having to put my professional writer‘s money where my mouth is.
I could have shrunk from this challenge. And a lesser me, on a less confident day, might have done exactly that. A version of myself who hadn’t spent the evening having playful fun and feeling flattered by this man might have laughed it off or cringed and stuttered ‘haha maybe later.’ But sod it. If you’re craving the kind of intimacy and connection that allows someone to take risks with you, you have to respond with enthusiasm when they actually end up taking them.
Besides, he’s right: I fucking am a professional writer.
So I opened my mouth…
“I need your fucking dick inside me.”
And said some stuff…
“You’re so fucking hard and you feel so good and I’m so wet for it Jesus fuck my cunt hurts please please fuck me. I want you to get inside me nice and deep, fucking hurt me with it.”
It was very far from perfect…
“Pin me down and hold me there so all I can do is struggle against you and then just take what you want from my cunt. Fucking pleeeease. I can feel how hard you are in my hand and I really want you deep inside me please please oh fuck yeah that feels good.”
I babbled and crossed my fingers and kept going, then when I felt like I was running out of steam, I turned my babble in a ‘shut me up’ direction…
“Please fuck me now I really need it oh God yeah just put your hands around my throat…”
Because although I’m a writer on the surface, I’m a marketer at heart, so I know that persuasive copy should end on a call to action.
It’s far from the best sexy chat I’ve ever done, but in that moment it didn’t matter much to me whether I ‘won’ the battle – I just needed to demonstrate that I’d happily pick up the gauntlet.