I can remember the way it felt the first time it hit me. Like I had been running for miles and was finally able to get a drink of water, like I was eating my first home cooked meal after have been starved for too long, like a crash without a wave – a rush of euphoria.
It built up in the lowest part of my womb, fighting to leave me so that I may arrive. I had no idea I had it in me, not for another soul at least. For so long, that feeling was something I could only achieve alone. Past lovers tried their hardest to beckon it from me, hoping that it would respond when they called its name, “Come." It never did, I never did.
There was something about sex that felt like such a performance and an orgasm always felt like a spotlight shining as opposed to an inviting space where I could arrive at my leisure, not when I was told. I don't think past lovers understood that the way that he does. I gave disclaimers about my inability, my partners would nod their heads in understanding, but the acknowledgement would discontinue being mutual once their ego entered the picture and took center stage.
Oh, men and their challenges.
They looked at me like one. Frantic fingers would press my clit far too hard. Frantic movements in general, it was just…no. I understood why some would fake it, because my lack of an orgasm seemed to be taken so personally by them, as if my body was his own.
Despite what my language might suggest, I was content with sex without orgasms. For a long time, and even now, what I enjoy about sex is the ride itself. I love the way it feels to be filled, how lips and tongues intertwine, arms and lips. How we build just to break. How a want evolves into a need. The little sounds that exits his mouth that mingle with mine into a perfect duet. It's the experience itself for me, not the very end. Until him.
I felt something different in the air between us from minute one of meeting each other. We spoke like we knew one another for years. Our back and forth was instant and magic, our attraction undeniable, our chemistry magnetic. The vibe was right, the timing.
About a week after our first date, we were engaging in one of our nightly calls during my after class commute. Late at night, on the bus with prying ears to hear, I expressed to him how much I wanted him, how I didn't want to hold back out of hope that he'd desire me the more I made him wait.
I wanted to have sex with him.
We agreed that if we took it there, it would be a monogamous exclusive thing despite just officially entering the “talking" stage. I bit my lip. We played together on the phone later that night with my hand between my thighs. With his voice in my ears, giving me direction, calling its name, he gave me my first orgasm. I was able to let go in a way that I hadn't before in the presence of another. He wasn't physically there, but in a way, it felt he was. I tightened and came undone and, with him, it was only the beginning.
The second, would come in another week. I was working on an assignment late Sunday evening in the library with one of my classmates. My hair was tucked away underneath my obligatory winter beanie. I wore my panther pride proudly through my university hoodie and sweats. I wanted him then, but I wanted it to be under different circumstances. I wanted to be vampy, a showstopper. But I couldn't help that I wanted him when I wanted him. So after I finished my essay, I left the library, headed to his house, and I was his.
The seduction was like nothing I ever experienced, perhaps because it wasn't seduction at all. It was comfort, it was vulnerability, it was intimate.
The first time we saw one another naked was during an hour-long shower where we talked about life and listened to music. There was nothing sexual about it whatsoever, to the point where I wondered if we were indeed going to have sex at all. But as I moisturized my body with oil, he stopped me suddenly with a kiss that demanded my attention before leading me back to his bedroom. Then he took me. My gasp permeated the quiet of the house. I had never felt so full. Never. He lifted my legs and dipped his head so that he could meet my lips as we exchanged breaths and moans on one another's tongues. I didn't know I was coming until it hit me.
A combination of the sensuality of our act, the intensity, and how perfectly he fit within me made sex feel like nothing I ever felt before. He was like nothing I ever felt before. I let go. He didn't speed up his stroke at my center's fluttering, instead he kept steady in his movements. Slow, deep, purposeful strokes. My legs were on his shoulders, he bit my calf muscle, and moaned in response to feeling me grip around him. “There we go baby," he whispered against me. And I fell, surrendered to it and him completely. I was his.
In one night he changed my mind about orgasms. He showed me the glory of how it feels to pulsate around someone and writhe through waves of pleasure while touching another person in an act of deep intimacy. It happened so quickly and so effortlessly, without a strategically placed finger or a beckon for it at his lips. It was pure passion and my willingness to surrender to the spotlight I had always shied away from, a spotlight I drew closer to solely because he didn't ask it of me. He got me. He taught me that surrender does not mean I have been conquered.
He taught me that sex was a walk, not a race.
Not something to be determined, to be pressured, cornered, and made to feel like I must “arrive" in order to meet my partner's needs. I felt safe to let go to the extent that I did, because with him, it was not about need or ego. It was selfless, giving, dancing, bathing, it was love. I had never had a vaginal orgasm with someone before him, and he had me so addicted I didn't want to ever go back.
“Come for me." It only answers to him calling its name. It does, I always do. As you may know, an “I love you" soon followed.
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