I want to make you smile and I want to make you cum.
I want to hold your hand and I want to hold your hips down while you’re writhing.
I want to make your eyes light up and I want to make them roll in the back of your head.
I want to be your reason to wake up and your reason to stay in bed.
I want to kiss your wounds and I want you to leave them on my back.
I want to play with your hair while you sleep and I want to feel it between my fingers while you are on top of me.
I want to memorize the repetition of your breathing and I want to memorize the sporadics of your moaning.
I want to see the arch in your grin and I want to feel the arch in your back before you collapse.
I want to go out to dinner with you and I want to go down on you.
I want to to feel you in my heart and I want to feel you inside me.
I want to make you laugh and I want to make you scream.
I want to still be able to taste you in the morning.
I want you in every form.
Sorry I haven’t posted anything in a while, I hope this makes up for it!
I don’t mind clingy. In fact, I appreciate it more. When you constantly tell me you miss me, or get worried when I don’t respond quickly. Because it shows that you actually care about me, and if I truly like you, nothing you do will ever annoy me.
Sex is not a goddamn performance.
Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.
It should not require confidence.
Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.
Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.
You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.
It’s not about being “good in bed.”
It’s about being happy.
One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.
What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you.
Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.
Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be.
I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.
I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want.
Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.
I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.
“Good in bed,” what.
You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.
Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.
This isn’t a test.
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