Sexual compatibility isn’t always about liking the same things. It’s nice to discover that your whims and lusts match up sometimes, when you both fancy exactly the same kind of shag. But to me, being sexually compatible is less about always wanting the same thing and more about being intrigued by the other person’s kinks and quirks.
He likes things slow and soft and tactile. He likes the sensation of skin on skin. He likes me to wear his flannel PJs and let him run his hands all over the curves of my bum under the soft, soft fabric.
He likes nudity and gentleness and deep, long kisses. That feeling of just drowning in each other.
I like… other stuff. Force and aggression and being used. I like the sound of him unbuckling his belt. Fucking with as many clothes on as possible, to highlight the urgency with which he wants to get his dick inside.
The soft-soft touchy-feely fucks would never even enter my head… if it weren’t for him.
So sexual compatibility isn’t simply a matter of wanting the same things all the time. Because I think we’re compatible, even though our innate lusts run to very different things.
Sexual compatibility isn’t about him wanting – immediately and desperately – to shove his dick inside me and beat me with a leather belt. It’s the fact that he’ll spend ages mulling over how to give me a fuck I really love.
Like last night, when he watched me lying on my stomach on the floor of the living room, his horny brain ticked away telling him exactly the right way to fuck me. And drawing on experience honed over years of listening to what I want, he made his move: kneeling down, silently, beside me, and smacking both of his flat palms firmly on my arse. Whispering ‘sssh’ as he pulled my pants down and whacking me to warm me up before slipping his cock inside. Calling me a ‘good girl’ with a grunt as I whimpered ‘please give me your cock.’
And it’s a two-way street. Because although I am often a selfish, greedy fuck, always trying to find new ways to get him to be cruel in just the way I like, I’m also always on the look-out for new ways to press his buttons.
We’re not sexually compatible in the sense of having the same tastes. But we’re compatible because each of us likes trying to find new ways to please the other one. I’ll wear his tactile pyjamas and knickers he’s picked out for me, because they expose more of the skin of my arse. Sometimes I’ll dance with no pants in the living room, because he likes to dance next to me and brush against the texture of my bum. I’ll browse Superdrug shelves for new things to smear on my body to make my skin soft in just the way he likes it. I’ll dust myself in talcum powder after a long, hot bath and then lie on top of him so he can feel the texture of my powdery skin.
And last Friday night, I filled a bath with sticky goopy stuff and then used my wet, slippery body to give him a full-on rub-down.
Sexually compatible… and slippery as fuck
It was weird – and definitely not what I’d normally do on Friday night – but it was exceptionally good fun. I’ll throw the shameless plug in here so we can get it over with and on to the good stuff: Slube Goo make these packets of tasty-smelling bath salts (don’t eat them), which come in flavours like ‘Gin Mojito’ and ‘Strawberry Daquiri’. You run yourself a bath, then pour the salts in, and as they disintegrate they turn the water into brightly-coloured slippery sex goo.
Slippery sex goo. Mmmm. When I first discovered it, at Erofame last year, I realised that although it wasn’t my ‘thing’, I knew a guy who’d very much enjoy it.
So you fill the bath with this slippery stuff then – if you’re organised like I am and you care about your carpets – you make a trail of towels from the bathroom to the bedroom and lay out a fluidproof sheet to fuck on when you’re done bathing.
Then you slide into the bath and touch each other. For ages.
I sat between his legs, and we both squirmed and slid all over each other in the bath. He’d gather fistfuls of the gloopiest liquid he could find and rub it all over my stomach and tits. Breathing deeply to enjoy the scent of my hair and the smell of the gin-flavoured sticky stuff, and thrusting gently behind me so he could feel his erection sliding against my bum. I ran my hands back and over him, enjoying the feeling of the ottery hair on his chest all slick and wet and tactile. And I liked it because he did, and because I could do this for him.
When we were ready to get out and fuck – we’ve long ago given up trying to have sex in the bath itself – we stepped out very very carefully and tiptoed, giggling, over our towel-bridge to the bedroom.
I lay him down on the sheet and used my whole body to wank him off. Sliding up and down and all over him until every single inch of us was covered in slippery goo. I could feel my nipples getting hard as I rubbed myself against his chest, and his did too – the wetness made it easier to feel the changes in texture from soft to hard. It made it tricky to roll over on top of him, but I did it in the end, so that my bum was sliding neatly over his erection, which sat snugly in the crack of my arse.
And oh it was so weird. And so good. And so the-last-thing-I-would-ever-have-done if it weren’t for him. Later that evening, once we’d powered through the clean-up, my mind wandered to the sensation of his skin on mine, and I got turned on by the thought of what we did, and the way it made his eyes light up. The giggles and fun that I’d never have had, if I always got my way – my brutal, aggressive, dirty, single-minded way.
So we’re not ‘sexually compatible’ in the way that phrase implies – we don’t fit neatly together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Aroused by the same fantasies all the time, and turned off by similar squicks. But we match and intersect at important points, and we’re both game for new ideas. We hunt out kinks that the other might like and bring them home to each other, the way we’ll bring new chocolate from the corner shop because we thought the other one might fancy trying it out.
Not one of my fantasies has ever begun ‘fill a bath with green gunge’ or ‘lay down a fluidproof sheet‘, but without him I’d never have experienced that joy: the slippery-softness of rolling around together, giggling and covered in green sticky goo.