Sex is not a goddamn performance.
Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.
It should not require confidence.
Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.
Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.
You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.
It’s not about being “good in bed.”
It’s about being happy.
One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.
What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you.
Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.
Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be.
I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.
I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want.
Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.
I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.
“Good in bed,” what.
You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.
Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.
This isn’t a test.
— (via thewastedgeneration)
— Sylvia Plath (via felicefawn)
(Probably unknown because it’s bullshit.)
I thought that I wanted you completely
when really I just wanted
to taste you for a night
like the dusty bottle of wine
I keep under my bed that makes
me cough when I try to drink it sober
and maybe I just need your
hands around my neck and your lips
at the base of my throat
because the pain is different and
you smell like strawberries instead of smoke
and your words are rough but I melt into them
because I am scared of anything gentle.
I won’t cry when you slip away with the grace of dawn
because tenderness and intimacy
are not the same as damp sheets and purple bruises
and pills swallowed to bring dreams
and when I see you tomorrow or next week at a gas station or a grocery store
I won’t blush at the memory of your voice or your body
in my bed and I won’t wonder why you text me instead
of calling because all we share is skin
that turns the color of grapefruit when touched in the right way
and I will never really blossom for you.
But somehow fucking you
makes it easier to sleep without him.
My heart stops
but only in moments (with you)—
the kind of moments I would like Polaroids of
tucked away in my wallet beside
the extra condom and the love letter written to me
by the boy who died last three years ago—
they say his heart exploded when he took his last breath (I think he was drunk)—
and I can still taste your lips on my own
and I know that if they ran a black light over my body
they would see only your fingerprints (everywhere)
and I know that you fucked eight girls and carry
their hearts in your pocket next to your cigarettes for good luck
but I still like the way your skin feels
beneath my hands
and I wonder if you can feel my flaws even in the dark
and I don’t care because when you kiss me
I don’t think (about anything except you)
and I want you to leave a trail along my thighs and find your
way inside of me so that you can leave your handprints on my bones
and your voice weaving riddles between my ribs
and really I’m just trying to say that I want you to fuck me
because sometimes I feel like trying to touch the sunset (by jumping
from a building maybe)
and they say that the human heart beats 4,000 times per hour
and I want to know what yours sounds like.