What Sex Feels Like to Me as a Man
Our shirts are off. My hands are walking hundreds of miles over her skin, exploring every crease and rise and tip and valley, learning her and evoking her surrender.
I am taller. When we kiss, my head leans down, hers upwards, exposing her throat — an animal vulnerability into which we each lean.
One hand on the nape of her neck, fingers lacing through her hair, the other hand around the small of her back, pulling her body into mine.
I am a rock and she is the ocean. There is no separation between us even though our bodies are separate. She fills the unforgiving places in me with sweet sustenance and I offer a vessel into which she can relax. It is my rigidity and her flow that creates the push-pull between us and draws off what remains of our clothes.
The house. It’s dark. Streetlights pour in through the window with the sheer curtains because in a third-floor apartment there’s no need for privacy. There’s a smell of spaghetti sauce and a scented candle in the air and it’s snowing softly outside.
But in here, it’s warm. Not because of the old gas radiator against the wall, but because my pulse is rising along with hers as we crawl closer to the grand beginning — the point at which one journey ends and another begins.
She’s up against the wall, and I’m up against her. A leg wraps around me and I grab it, my hands big enough to grasp her thigh tightly, securely.
Her hips move towards me, mine towards her, and there’s the delightful grind of pressure and friction and longing and anticipation.
My heart pounds. There’s a lot of blood moving, and I can feel it changing my physiology. She is drawing me out of myself and into a form in which I can penetrate her — body, mind and soul.
My thoughts are simple, focused, more drinking in of her ridiculous beauty as she shapeshifts from a beautiful woman into a goddess of love about whom I could never write enough good things.
She smells like a woman in every way. On her neck I smell the sweetness of her perfume, but from the rest of her I smell desire. These things are not lost on me. I run my hands down the sides of her body and kiss from forehead to navel, tasting her sweat like it’s going to quench a many-years-long thirst.
Her smell becomes a part of me. No more am I breathing her in, she has become my breath. When I inhale, my chest expands to take all of her inside me, and when I exhale, I release her back into the wild so she can ravage my senses again moments later.
My tongue traces the softest skin its ever known, my lips playing along, my fingers grabbing at the insides of her thighs, her hips, that sweet spot at the inside top of her legs.
This is a whole-body affair, for her and for me. I am an explorer, eager, wide-eyed and open to the immeasurable possibilities of discovery and glory.
I kiss my way back to her lips and take a nibble of her collar bone. There’s a giggle and a moan; I press my forehead against her chest and wrap her in my arms. They go all the way around her waist and then some. Enveloping her is my purpose.
She’s sturdy. Not in the way that I need her to shelter me, but in the way that I know I’m not going to break her if things get unruly. She’s a lioness, swift and strong, and I know together we rule these lands of passion and pleasure.
She rolls on top of me and takes the lead, her hands and her lips and her tongue venturing off on their own expeditions, drawing me further into love and further into desire.
Her mouth is warm, and soft, a generous place to dwell for a time. I don’t know what she does with her tongue, but it sends chills up my spine and I stiffen into a hearty craving for more. The energy that’s been building in my pelvis has begun its ascent up my spine and there’s no stopping it now. My head swims, my vision blurry, and not just because she took off my glasses.
Colors form behind my eyes as she holds all of me within her; a warmth washes over me.
She’s coming up now, her hands moving over my chest, pressing against my muscles, feeling out my foundations and kissing me when I pass the test, having proven myself a worthy adversary in the battle of passion that is about to ensue.
She climbs atop my mountain, straddling me and hovering for a moment as I grab the tops of her thighs, bracing for the explosion of ecstasy that is the consummate entrance into her innermost truth.
Then, slowly, she sits back, her silhouette against the dim light something like a ghost that inspires at once reverence and fear and fierce, ferocious hunger.
Grabbing her wrists I pull her forward. Wrapping my hands around her delicate face I pull her in and kiss her.
But we can hardly breathe for gasping, and so our kisses are manic, desperate attempts to express a love that simply cannot be contained even in two bodies.
So we become one. I can feel her inner limit, and when I press against it she sighs as though some great weight has been lifted off her shoulders. My hands cannot get enough of her, my fingers searching for an end but finding none. Skin melts into skin, sweat mingles with sweat, all of me merging with all of her.
For what feels like years we rock in the playful, raucous sway that becomes our wild hunt for higher heights and deeper depths.
We roll and tumble and collide like waves on a rocky shore, the ends of our intensity seemingly nonexistent.
But eventually, the waves crest, the storm breaks, and there comes the point of ultimate release, complete surrender, and ecstatic becoming.
She cries out, I growl, we explode into and around and through each other, our awareness now swirling in some third being created between us. Divinity and sin and life and death all converge upon a single point that exists in the infinitesimal space between our hearts as they press against each other through skin and bone, longing desperately to break their bonds and squish together.
And as the great wave subsides, there’s a stillness like you’ve never known. For a man, the moments after orgasm precipitate an otherworldly surrender to his woman. He wants to live in her house, kill for her and serve her femininity for the rest of his days.
I feel her. We are still joined — still merged and bonded in our powerful shared experience of God. I can feel my being melting — melted — into hers. There is no world outside our window. There is no world even outside our bed.
The light through the window, the candle’s glow and flicker, the marinara sauce smell — all of this fades away and she is the entire universe to me.
We laugh — I feel like crying because I cannot fathom the goodness that this life seems currently to embody. I understand the peace that must surely come after death.
In French, they often refer to orgasm as la petite mort — little death — and this is why. Because when we give ultimately of ourselves, releasing the very essence of what makes us masculine, we die to ourselves and are reborn as lovers — as her lover.
She and I drink deeply from a glass of water. We clean up.
We pull the sheets back on the bed and curl up beneath them, her head on my chest, her top leg over mine.
This is the sweetest part.
This is where fucking finally transforms into love. Though ravenous in our moments of wildness, we are tender in our embrace. Fingers trace the evidences of passion, lips graze naked skin, and the world turns and returns, slowly, gingerly.
We may drift to sleep. We may lay awake for hours and talk and giggle and tease. But whatever comes next, it is basked in the glow of something powerful, and so it is immaculate. We’ve painted our Sistine Chapel and the ceremonies carried out within are all the more special for our works of art throughout those hallowed halls.
Sex, for me, is about much more than the physical sensation. And in truth, the tangible, physiological feeling cannot be described. It is illusive, ineffable, fleeting and changeable. But the experience itself can be conjured through poetry, through art, through a kiss or a wink or a glance.