That sex can (sometimes) get better with time
On your list of resolutions for 2015, right after you Quit
Smoking And Get In Shape and Learn to Eat Quinoa, Tofu And Broccoli, you must
add: Do One Thing In Bed You Never Imagined You Would Do. Trust me, there’s a
greater chance of you actually keeping this resolution and coming out a happier
person. Here’s what I learned about sex this year.
That sex can (sometimes) get better with time.
There’s a man I’ve known a few years, but it’s only in 2014
that we met about a dozen times instead of making our annual three- day
beachside rendezvous. At first, I was nervous about seeing him that often – the
sex was good but not mind-blowing, and this time, our business trip was going
to be a week long. It started the way it normally does, and it was nice enough.
We had a decent pattern: lazy sex in the afternoon and a more energetic session
at dusk, followed by dinners with great wine. Then one night, as I was brushing
my teeth to get ready for bed, he came up behind me, fully naked and hard, and
slammed me against the bathroom wall, and then the sink, and finally carried me
into bed, where we had our first simultaneous climax. And at about 4am, I was
awakened by his fingers caressing my ass. Wow. I hadn’t been expecting that. At
all. But there are certain opportunities for sex that arise only when you’re in
close proximity with someone for a prolonged period of time. Ever since, we’ve
delighted each other with unexpected moments of passion – and have gained a better idea of what we like, love
and simply cannot get enough of.
That I don’t have to keep making history.
The challenge of being a sex columnist is that you’re
constantly looking for new subjects to write about. I’m always hoping a man
surprises me with a remarkable move, or has a weird trait worth writing home
about, or makes a funny request. Sometimes, they do. Sometimes, though, the men
I meet are normal. They’re decent looking, and they like doing it missionary,
doggy, and reverse-cowboy and all the usual ways. They fall asleep soon after,
they snore. They’re perfectly lovely when we wake up, they kiss me and promise
to call, and most of them do, and some don’t, and it doesn’t really matter
because we both got what we wanted and had a lovely time, and we are all busy
with jobs or spouses or taxes or registering to vote or applying for visas
or buying tickets when Indigo has a sale. Life. Even though sex is one of my
favourite things about life (possibly my favourite), there’s a lot of other
shit happening, too.
And this
year, I realized, it’s okay if every guy doesn’t make a good story. I just need
a minimum of 12 wild nights a year so my editor gets a column every month. And
please, a dozen nights of wild crazy sex is something I do with my eyes closed
(and sometimes open).
That quality trumps quantity.
I should
admit, first off, that I am speaking relatively. There’s a certain amount of
sexual activity my libido simply requires – it averages out to at least once a
day, every day. There are no sick days, there are no leaves, no blackout dates.
Don’t let that scare you; my preference is to have at least three obliging men
on speed-dial at any given point. This year, one of my favourite men suggested
we try exclusivity – as an experiment. When I refused, he said a good columnist
would try anything once. I decided he was right. He was the perfect candidate,
after all – we’d had a one-night stand that turned into a series of encounters;
he was smart, funny and sexy, with blue-grey eyes that always manage to disarm
me. It’s been a few months – an eternity in my mind, though it doesn’t seem to
faze him – and I haven’t strayed once.
It isn’t
that I owe him monogamy, or an explanation – just notice if I’m breaking our
agreement. And the inconvenience of it doesn’t end up justifying my running out
of the bar and texting him to say I met a cute guy and am planning to go home
with him so all bets are off. I figured I’d rather stay indoors, finish my
drink, and head over to my blue-grey-eyed boy instead, slightly tipsy, slightly
turned on, and have him finish the job perfectly, as he always does. Am I
getting boring? No. I’m just weighing the odds of sex with a stranger
(exciting, fresh, new) with a tried-and- tested man I’m guaranteed to orgasm
with. Call it time management, efficiency, efficacy, clinical, whatever. It
works. It works great. Just thinking about him in bed, running his fingers over
my clit, pressing his hardness into my thigh until I’m begging him to enter me,
his tongue finishing me off – I find myself downing my cocktail, saying goodbye
to the stranger and rushing off, wet between the legs. I may not get to add a
number on my list of conquests tonight, but some things are priceless.
Pasted
from <http:www.gqindia.com