Sometimes – very rarely – I will meet a man so filthy that within five minutes I am dreaming of the bad things I want to do to him. That kind of lust is a gutpunch – an instant hit of horn that has me weak and drooling. But that kind is not as common, or as real to me, as lust that grows slowly.
I once met a man who I wanted to grab me by the neck and shove me against a wall. Slide slender fingers down the front of my knickers and whisper ‘bitch’ in my ear as he pinched and grabbed at me. Flip me round and yank down my jeans, lube himself up, stuff his cock deep into my ass and tell me ‘good girl’ as I squirmed against him.
But that lust was mostly an illusion. I had little idea if that man would have been up for that kind of thing, and even if he were he might not have been up for it with me. If push had come to shove-me-against-a-wall, he might have decided against it. That kind of lust could only be real in my own head, in that moment.
More often, lust grows slowly, as I learn more about what makes someone tick.
Lust that grows slowly
A few nights ago, I was dreaming in the bath. I spend a lot of time on dreams these days: making plans for the things I want to do when the world stops being such a trashfire. Dreams are good, and fun in their own right. Even if they never amount to anything, they fizz around in my brain bringing joy and badly-needed optimism. So a few nights ago I was dreaming in the bath.
What I dreamed of was making a phone call. When the guy at the other end of it picked up, I planned to say “what mood are you in?” and in my daydream he told me “horny.” So I’d respond with: “right. Get comfy. Hold your cock. I’m going to tell you what I want to do right now.”
This daydream was so vivid that as I lay there in the bath, casually touching myself, I had that conversation aloud. Told the bathroom walls: “I want you to lube me up and order me to spread myself for you, so you can press the tip of your cock into my ass and let me squirm on it until the nerves disappear and I’m ready for you to fuck me good and deep.” Said: “I want you to put both your hands on my shoulders to pin me down, and tell me I’m a ‘good girl’ as I push backwards onto you.” And lots more than that – five whole minutes of soft-spoken, dreamy filth that would end in “then I need you to grunt as you pump all your cum into me, shot after shot of it deep into my ass, as I beg you to fill me right up.”
And I could not call the man I was thinking of, so I just lay there in the bath dreaming, and wishing I weren’t so fixated on things that belong solidly in the past.
The reason I was dreaming about that, with him, is because that is where my lust grew. Like a vine that I nurtured and tended, shaping it in a particular direction over time. The man I did not call didn’t make me weak at the knees the first day I first met him. He didn’t make me drool or giggle. He didn’t give me that gutpunch of lust that men who are more instinctively my type might inspire. But my lust grew for him, and around him, over years and years and years.
Lust takes time
When I fancy someone, I want to be able to write essays about the ways I’d like to fuck them. Want to dream about ideas and plans, and make sure to pack my bag with specific sex toys when I head off to see them next. I want to imagine the things we’ll do together, whenever we get the chance to do them. But I can’t do that straight away, because these dreams and plans would just be random stabs in the dark: curating lust for someone takes time. It takes conversation and contemplation and practice. It takes understanding what makes them tick: not just lists of ‘fucks I’d like to have’ but detailed chat about why this particular fuck might turn them on.
Someone can be hot on paper – fun and funny and interesting and cool and equipped with big sexy arms – but if I can’t get into their head, I won’t yet know exactly how to dream about them. My sexuality is quite responsive: I need to know what someone likes, and what makes them hard, before I can start getting wet for the ways I can work that stuff into our repertoire.
There’s a reason one of the most frequently used tags on this fuckblog is ‘communication‘.
If you tell me you want to try pegging, for example, that gives me a general direction in which I can grow my lust. But ‘pegging‘ alone doesn’t give me much to work with: there’s not enough soil in which to grow the vine. I am rarely hot for specific sex acts or people in isolation: I need both these things together. So don’t just tell me you want to try pegging, give me detail. What is it about pegging that turns you on? Is it the prostate stimulation? The feeling of being dominated? The joy of feeling full and stretched? The fact you think I’d look hot wearing a harness and lubing up a nice, solid silicone cock? (You’d be right, by the way, I really do). Tell me what you want and I can plant the seed. Tell me why you want it and I can tend my lust, like a vine. And each drop of detail you give me waters the vine, and allows me to nurture it further: with phrases you’ve used in bed or fantasies you’ve confessed to me over pillow talk in the afterglow. Porn you’ve sent me with the subject line ‘how about this?’ or – better, but harder – porn you’ve written yourself, in which you’ve allowed yourself the freedom to be eager about the specific details of what you enjoy and why.
A friend and I were talking recently about ‘growers versus showers’ – not in the traditional sense of ‘growers v showers’ when you’re talking dick, but in the sense of people who grow on you versus those who give you that immediate gutpunch of lust. She said she thought she might be weird for wanting a grower, and if my job here is of any practical use whatsoever it’s telling you when either a) you’re absolutely not weird or b) you are weird, but in a way that makes you cool and beautiful. This one’s an ‘a’: it’s absolutely not weird to expect/want/enjoy lust that grows slowly. Not only is it my favourite kind, I think even the ‘instant chemistry’ lust has to eventually turn into ‘growing’ lust if something’s going to work long term. For me, at any rate. The talking and the tone and the detail all takes time to learn, I can’t just intuit it – I’m good but I’m not magic.
When I first meet someone, no matter how much I like them, I am rarely able to conjure the same kind of lust that I’ll feel once I get to know them better. Surface-level lust, for your lips or jokes or hands or arms or the glint in your eye when we talk about bondage… those are the seeds. Letting me into your head, telling me your dirty little secrets, whispering the things you think when you’re alone and wanking… those are the fertiliser that helps me tend the vine until it curls and twists and wraps around me, eventually creeping into my head.
We can have instant chemistry, or a flash of something promising, but in order to truly lust after you first I need to understand you.