A huge component of this exercise in publicizing my sex life is finding words for nameless things. Sex is full of acts and feelings that words are totally insufficient to convey: the instant between when a lover is close enough to touch my body and when they actually do is filled with viscous tension. In that flash everything is encased in resin and anticipation doesn't begin or end; it consumes every aspect of my senses and every path in my thoughts. Anticipation is luxury. Anticipation is agony.
My partner's touch against any part of my body brings a tension and a relaxation. The hand on my face while we kiss is more intimate than the hand on the small of my back: the former feels like a caress over the entire expanse of my skin while the latter has a direct connection to my loins. A lover pulling my body into theirs, pulling on my waist or wrapping me up and pressing my breasts into a receptive torso: warm and engulfing and intoxicating.
I had a partner who loved to kiss my toes, up the arch of my feet, across my heel, up my calf to the back of my knee, and linger before continuing on his travels. His tongue in the unexplored reaches of this fossa was the pleasurable version of a face full of cold water, the sensation traveling from those creases up my dermatome to the sacrum and back out in all directions, making my back arch and my labia engorge. This physiologic response is primal, it is urgent, and it has begun and worked to its end before my mind has the capacity to make my lips gasp.
He used to ask me if I wanted more.
The best response I could give was without words.
He would hold my leg as it dissolved into fasciculations. Sometimes he would kiss the back of my knee again. Sometimes he would travel north, sometimes back south: it depended on how viscous the resin of anticipation was, how deeply encased in it we were, and how much he wanted to see a glistening, shining coat of fluid escaping from my body before he would make good on his tongue's unspoken promise to explore other creases and folds.
It does not matter if he asked me questions. The responses were without words.
Another lover greatly enjoyed stripping the two of us down before a mirror, and caressing the entire expanse of my surface with his hands, wrapping me as close to him as he could. His cock would be insistent against my thigh. We rubbed our bodies together, enjoying the warmth and friction, and having to practice the most difficult kind of restraint to not fuck when a slight change in the angle of our hips would have guaranteed penetration.
The tendons that move the whole of my frame are tense as violin strings when we practice this restraint.
The ligaments that hold my bones together ached for this other posture.
The non-words that escape my larynx are as expressive as any essay; the nature of the way we touch generates profound communication. Making the request for a condom requires switching from my hypothalamus and its primal, animalistic drives to my cortex: practicality in lust is the opposite of the tension we are generating.
When my lover enters my body, there is a sensation not so much of fullness or stretching or warmth, though those are all aspects of it, but more of the completion of an infinite loop. The tension in my muscles and bones is tightened and resolved, the urges that flood my skull escape from my mouth as a sigh. The loop is made of the satisfaction of an overwhelming desire. The loop builds and breaks stress and satisfaction. It trades one type of anticipation for another, cycling back and forth between my brainstem and my pelvis.
When my lover manages to stimulate the right spot on the back of my pubic bone, or deftly massages my clitoris, there is the heat mixed with pressure mixed with clarity and fog. There is a point in this protocol where the strain and release of the infinite loop, the pressure and heat of direct stimulation, and the vibration, humming, tingling, intensely pleasurable paresthesia that derives from their synergy approach overwhelming. This moment, the instant or two before orgasm, the thickest part of the resin, is brief and eternal.
The orgasm itself is variable in nature. At its extremes it varies from an awareness that I am climaxing without much sensation; to a deep, muscular, spasming ache like what lives in my thighs the day after a long untrained run that originates in my uterus and vagina and traveling out in pulses to the ends of my extremities. It is pleasure mixed with the sensation of a muscle that has fallen asleep waking up again, blood flowing as pins and needles through all my circulation and bringing with it relapsing and remitting contraction. My mind ranges between blank and fixated on an image, sometimes sexual and sometimes not, but my voice is disconnected from my reason. It is linked to my basal drives and it expresses the unambiguous satisfaction that comes with a sensation that is completely outside the realm of words. I could shatter, I could break in half with the deepest part of my pelvis as the vertex.
The ratios of all the different wordless components that make up sex change with every partner. They vary with my cycles, they vary with my mood, they vary with my desire. There is no best or worst mixture. Sex here is not zero sum, but an infinite amount of combinations or sensations to be tried on and changed into and out of as my biological and social oscillations dictate. It is the culmination of thrumming, humming urges versus the hyperverbal, hyperanalytical aspects of my psyche. It is conflict and resolution. It is blankness and expansion.
It is trapped in a resin of anticipation, without beginning or end.