In the soft, grey light of my fantasy, I can feel you moving behind me. The mattress gives way to your body, springs creaking and sighing, and the warmth of your skin is touching mine. Your hands run over my back, my hips, down my legs where they kneel on the bed. You align yourself behind me, to my proffered opening, already slick and ready from seeming hours of teasing and groping.
And yet I am never quite ready for the shock of penetration, for that initial, delicious stretching. I can’t help but gasp as you slowly, firmly, fill me with your cock. I can hear your own gasps and drawn breaths as you revel at the heat and tightness. You shift your weight on the bed, already beginning to thrust.
Wait, I whisper, half-shy and all lustful. Don’t move. I arch my back as I slowly move my hips to take you inside me, until I am pressed against your groin, completely filled with your cock. And then I slowly move forward, gasping with each inch of sudden emptiness, until only the head is inside me.
Back, and forth. Back, and forth. Slowly driving both of us crazy with lust. You cannot take it anymore, grab at my hips, and slam into me with force that empties my lungs. You are in a frenzy now, thrusting and grinding me as if trying to go through my whole body. My arms give way to your strength, and I surrender to the sensations, crying out in ecstasy with each thrust that fills me more than the previous one.
These past few days have been fairly hectic and crazy, with work piling up for classes and my getting sick in the midst of it all, as well as getting my period on the same day.
Yet, despite it all, I have had sex on my mind. A lot of sex. Not just imaginary scenes from my fantasies, or taken from experience, either. I’ve been thinking lately about the kinds of things that titillate me the most. I suppose there is something to be said for wanting most what one cannot have, and I am presently prevented from sex both because my boyfriend is far, far away, and because it is my period and I don’t want to make a mess.
Which brings me back to my frequent fantasies and thoughts about sex. I used to read quite a lot of books as a kid, especially science fiction and fantasy novels. And I soon found myself moving rapidly up the ranks of these pulpy books, from children’s series to Young Adult, and from there to the as yet mysterious world of Adult.
From the mildly described nude women of Piers Anthony’s world, to the more explicitly described sex scenes of Irene Radford’s Merlin series, all served more than adequate fodder for my hormonal, barely teenage self. I was swept up by the strange but wonderful sensations I felt while reading these kinds of passages, and soon began masturbating to them. Yet some of these books barely mention the actual act; rather, they hint here and there, noting the flush of heat on one character’s cheek, another’s awe at their partner’s body, the trembling of fear and excitement…
I still remember, sometimes vividly, these scenes from the books I read. The short but sweet scene of two of a group of adventurers who discover each other along the way, in a wicked and chilling novel I otherwise avoid thinking about, with it’s main antagonist a cruel Baron who skins people alive for sport. And, most recently, the frequent and dispassionate couplings of a futuristic society who uses the act of sex to transmit data and grow as a collective knowledge base.
It’s amazing how young I began reading such novels with explicit scenes. It’s more amazing that no one ever stopped me. Though given that I read from a genre no one else in my family was interested in, they couldn’t have had an idea of the kind of content I was reading. It soon became my secret, and I often revisited favorite scenes in the safety of my bed, late at night, one hand keeping the book open while the other explored those compelling sensations in my awakening body.
It is Homecoming weekend here, and with my dorm situated as it is behind the endearingly termed frat row, I can clearly hear all of the sounds of dancing, music, and voices from my room. And, matched with the fact that my door is closed and that, until recently, I have been reading in bed, I am left feeling an uncomfortable sense of loneliness and unbelonging.
Which, really, is irrational and stupid, seeing as how I’ve never enjoyed myself at fraternity basements, nor would I have anyone to go with if I did. There is no reason for me to feel like I should be out in the pulsating crowd of drunk dancers, grooving to ABBA and Diana Ross, rather than tucked into my bed and reading an engrossing novel.
And yet, I do. There is still some vestigial social pressure that makes me wish I could be out there. Even with the knowledge that my residents are not all out partying and that most of my closest fellow seniors have grown out of the frat-hopping stage cannot stop this sense of isolation. It’s the same feeling I had living in my own apartment in Taipei – as freeing an experience as it was, being socially isolated came at a high emotional cost.
But I shouldn’t be feeling this way! Not back on the campus I love, back with my friends…right? And I have talked with plenty of people today. I wish I could figure out where this loneliness comes from, and why it makes me tremble.
Part of it comes from reading this novel that I was given as a gift. It had drawn me in deeply, filling my mind and imagination in ways a novel has not done in a long time. I was hooked. And as I neared the last quarter of the book, I could already feel the telltale sides of the upcoming withdrawal: this overwhelming sense of sadness that the book was almost done. It happens whenever I read a good book. And it never ceases to amaze me how much this kind of thing affects me so completely. Having read the last, ultimately unfulfilling page, I am left feeling…worn.
To make things worse, I took a way-too-long nap this afternoon that has left my body disoriented and dull-minded. I have only eaten one meal, have not changed out of my pajamas, never went running as I had intended, and am completely awake right now.
I suppose I should try to do something productive, but all I want to do is draw cartoon strips of cockroaches…
She leaned in a little, feeling her weight shifting through her upper body, the latent energy resting along her shoulders and down the lengths of her arms. She looked down at him, at his eyes sparkling with tolerant amusement at her conquest. Her hands pinned his arms to his side, on his back, on their bed. His arms that her hands could not wrap completely around, that were double the circumference of her own.