I sometimes think I’m an anomaly. As a woman I feel like I am supposed to enjoy long erotica. Deeply descriptive and detailed stories. The kind where every kiss is lingered upon, every emotion felt, each touch described. On occasion I do enjoy the stories, but a lot of the time I am just looking for a fix.
I skip through the story, I rush to the steam, I skip over everything and read the climax over and over fingers working with the words in my mind. I like it fast and dirty. I look for the stories that are so far beyond my experience. I look for situations that I can’t even fathom in my real life.
That’s not necessarily what I like in real life, it’s not always what I write. I laugh at my impatience often. I wonder if other woman are the same way, rushing to the point of impact.
Similarly I wonder if others find themselves thinking things while fucking that may not appeal in real life. The foulest of language, being called the filthiest of words, imagining whispers that aren’t there, unable to say them out-loud. Thinking why? Would I really want to be told these things, to be called these names, but getting wetter each time they are muttered in your imagination.
There are things that I think that I couldn’t utter, that I haven’t really written. I’ve gotten close, but not crossed that line. Simon is an amazing man, and would indulge any whim of mine, but often the whim is in the thought alone…
I can’t always understand why I don’t share.
Then there are the times when no thought of kink passes through my head. When a simple fuck then sleep is enough, more than enough, and I wonder how is it I am the same person as I was when I was thinking such filth.
Just thoughts, emptying my head, before I look for my inspiration tonight…
But I haven’t really wanted too. Too much work not enough play. But if Santa by chance gave me one of the lovely corsets, waist clinchers, or the NJoy 11, I’d definitely have time to play. 🙂
FetLife Santa, slide down my chimney 😉