We all know that communicating about sex is vital. Whether it’s sending a hot email with your filthy plans for the evening, or asking your partner just how hard they want to be spanked, sex cannot possibly be fun unless you know which bits the other person likes.
And yet for some reason people laugh when I ask the burning questions.
Are you sad that you can’t fit your whole fist in me?
Is it nice if I keep sucking for a bit after you’ve come?
Do the ‘blow-job-imitating cock sheaths actually feel like a blow job?
For some reason I am known as one who irritates – even pesters – gentlemen I fuck about the deep details of their opinions on anything to do with sex.
What’s the best porn you’ve ever seen?
Have you ever warmed up a melon and then fucked it?
Or their bodies…
When you hold your dick to stop yourself pissing, does the semi mean you stop needing to go, or just that you can’t go?
Do you like the taste of your own spunk?
Can you tell the difference between this [wanks off with right hand] and this [wanks off with left hand]?
The truth is that, while a lot of these questions are there because I’m just tingling with curiosity…
Is it more fun to jizz loads in volume, or to jizz with force and power?
What’s better: coming inside me or coming on my tits?
Many of them are there because the very act of him answering turns me on. Watching his eyes glaze over as he considers the implications – the details – of each question I ask makes my blood run hot and my mind run into overdrive.
If I rub my cunt on your feet while I’m sucking you, does that put you off your own orgasm?
When we first got together, did you used to wank about me?
Do you still wank about me?
As I ask about it, I like to think about him doing it. And I know that while he may not share my fantasies, he’s more than happy to play along with them for a few minutes – to give me that delicious sense of sexual hope that comes from his temporary uncertainty about the answer.
Would you suck another dude off and let me watch?
Do you prefer to come on my tits or my arse?
What’s the most wanks you have ever had in a day?
And I know it can sometimes be trying…
No, but hypothetically, if you were going to suck another dude off and let me watch, which dude would you pick?
If you could get a hand job from anyone, would you rather someone with huge hands so they could envelop your cock, or tiny hands to make your cock look massive?
Or downright bizarre…
If we were having sex, and I turned into a zombie halfway through, would you keep going?
But I love asking questions – I love it. I love that despite the oddness of my pillow-talk investigations, he takes this shit seriously. No matter what I ask. Whether it’s weird hypotheticals…
Any kind of sex you want with just one person, or only blow jobs forever but from as many people as you like?
Would you rather never wank again but get shagged once a month, or never shag again but can wank as often as you like?
If I transported you back in time, blindfolded, to different sexual encounters, could you tell who you were fucking just based on the shape and feel of their cunt round your dick?
If you saw me in an Amsterdam window, how much would you pay for a shag?
What’s five Euros in British money?
What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever shoved up your arse?
Which of these x-rated Tumblr gifs is your favourite?
Your opinion on spunk bubbles?
Could you come just from me doing… this? [does ‘this’]
Or genuine concerns…
Do I taste different at different times of the month?
Have you ever woken up when I’ve been wanking next to you in bed?
I love the questions – I love the chat. From the sublime, through the terrifying, to the so-ridiculous-he-can-barely-give-an-answer. Because it’s not the questions themselves that matter – it’s the fact that I’m asking them. That I’m saying “hey, I’m really interested in this. I’m interested in you. Now please tell me everything you can about your penis.”
I know it gets irritating sometimes, and when it’s late at night and we’re lying in bed, and I have his dick in my hand, often the last thing he wants to do is engage in a surreal sexual game show.
Pizza or buttsex? Blowjobs or throatfucks? Nancy Botwin or Danaerys Targaryen?
But he answers. Because he knows that the best way to give me a window into his desires is to give me the rapid-fire answers to sexual questions. If you asked me what I like sexually I could write two thousand words that passably reflect what goes on in my head: the thrusting, aching, wet desire that covers all the things I truly love. He, on the other hand, would sit in front of a blank page for half an hour and eventually scrawl “tits” before throwing it into the bin. But neither of us would come close to really nailing the nuanced and subtle things that push us into arousal.
He answers my questions because the answers paint the picture that neither of us can fully do with words. Because alongside zombies, time-travel, spunk-force and Amsterdam windows, what I’m actually asking is:
What do you like?
And that’s my favourite question of all.