A lot of men are clunky kissers, moving their mouths around robotically as if there’s no thinking, feeling brain connected to their lips. Sex, or it’s simpler counterparts—some low-key petting, perhaps—becomes an item on a checklist that you lie through with your eyes wide open, staring at stains on the ceiling while you hope for it to just end already, please. These men have no emotion on their faces and it’s almost frightening to realize you’re being fucked (or almost-fucked) by an empty vessel. They’re neither gentle nor rough, but they’re not floating in some idyllic in-between place either. Instead, they’re sitting off the spectrum entirely, a ghost you had sex with once and quickly forgot about. It’s all a bit clinical and you feel as if you should compare notes afterwards for some vague scientific study. Hypothesis: sleeping with you is a non-event. Conclusion: Why, yes, yes it is.
That’s why when someone touches you the right way, it continues to thrill—turning your insides into what can only be described as hormonal cookie butter. These are the people who make you want to melt, preferably all over them…or perhaps in unison…just melt into a giant puddle of each other’s need to be caressed into oblivion. You’re no longer thinking about their overuse of the word “compelling” or their bad music taste because these things have nothing on the precise way they nibble your ears, sniffing them a bit like a dog which is weird…but you really like it, too. It feels good to be sniffed—feels good for someone to want to sniff you.
These people know not to touch your breasts like some doily handed down to them by a great-great grandmother. They know that area is sensitive, but not that sensitive, damn it. They also don’t waste time grazing your nether regions uncomfortably like they’re looking for weeds, or spend twenty fucking minutes making nothing but that damn circular motion in the area that they only think is your clitoris, a tip which they probably read about in their sister’s issue of Cosmo.
They’re enticed by your real body, with its tufts of hair and sweat and saliva. They don’t stare at it scared, hoping to will it into something more palatable, something with less to avoid.