Good sex

I don’t like to badmouth guys I hook up with. It’s not fair, for one thing. I’ve created a forum for my own self-expression, and it’s entirely one-sided. There’s space for comments, of course, but those don’t exactly provide a chance for equal rebuttal.

For another thing, trash-talking someone isn’t nice. It may be enjoyable for some. Recently I discontinued reading and following an online journal that took a turn for the worse when the author began picking on people just to ‘put them in their place,’ which apparently was anywhere below where he felt he stood. It’s not enjoyable for me either to write or read. There’s already so much negativity to be had in the world, particularly on the internet. I don’t care to contribute to its sodden weight.

This sorry little prelude is not leading up to a great big But. Or a leery However, I’ll have you know. It’s simply the mental reaction I had when I sat down to write up my encounter yesterday.

In the afternoon, Wednesday, I had a guy over I’ve met before. He’s appeared in the pages of this very blog. And the sex was . . . well, good. No, really. It was good. I came. How could it not be good?

The guy showed up when he said he would. We kissed for thirty seconds. He sucked me for almost precisely one minute. He dropped his pants and climbed up on the bed and buried his face in the mattress like a good boy, and I entered him from behind and fucked him. He groaned a lot. I told him how good his ass felt and what a good fuck he was, and meant every word. Then he shot all over the bed, and asked me to come quickly. I obliged, we cleaned up, and we went on his merry way to work. The total time elapsed was maybe fifteen minutes. A little perfunctory, but nothing to complain about.

Both of us left the encounter with cleared heads and drained ball sacs. Nothing to complain about there, right?

It’s just that when I sat down this morning to think of how to frame the encounter, none of the ways I wanted to describe it came out right. If I tried to make it sound as if it had been the best sex of my year so far, I’d be a liar. It wasn’t. I couldn’t frame it as a passionate moment between us, because passion simply wasn’t a part of it. I couldn’t make it more erotic than it was, or more meaningful than it had been. I couldn’t even go into a lot of juicy detail about the hydraulics of it, because it had been so simple: kiss, suck, insert tab A into slot B.

It just seemed that every way I thought of writing it up sounded in my head like I was damning it with the faintest of praise, and the thought of that sent me into paroxysms of guilt. Even now I feel vaguely foolish. Oh god, we only had good sex. I’m sooooo sorry it wasn’t better!

I suppose if anything, the encounter reminded me how much truly great sex I have. I’m lucky to meet some amazing people and enjoy some truly remarkable encounters. I’m fortunate to be receptive to connecting, on a certain emotional level, with a lot of people who appeal to me. I’m glad I have the capacity to appreciate the tenderness that men often show me, and to return it (I hope) in kind.

Yesterday was good sex. I’d do it again.

But it wasn’t amazing, and you know what? That’s perfectly fine.