Vanilla sex. Parts A, B and C go in slots X, Y or Z; the mechanics of this are a doddle. I’ve done a lot of it in my time. I can put on a virtuoso performance, in my eyes you’ll see reflected the greatest of all lovers, my voice and body joining the chorus of appreciation.
Whether or not I am truly appreciating – or just trying to. Vanilla sex is – for me – unsatisfying sex. It’s the touch of bodies but not of the soul. It’s the difference between doing and being, between enjoyment and passion. It’s not enough.
I never deliberately set out to exaggerate or deceive (what kind of psycho does that during a shag?!) but I have decades of self-conditioning to overcome, and performance is still the path of least resistance when vanilla is on the menu. I, the assertive, self-confident bastion of individuality outside the bedroom, became the chameleon within. What you need, what you want; this is what drives me. Given freedom, I am uncertain and anxious – and so I fall back upon script – a gasp here, a moan there. A sultry look turning to hungry need as the cue is dealt. My outward responses are so well-practiced now, that they occur even before my genuine reaction. Sometimes the rest of me catches up and I can truly believe in the story I have contrived to tell. Often not.
I’d be a great sex droid. Not always so good at being a human being perhaps.
I grew up among conflicting messages around sex. It’s bad, it’s wrong, it’s dirty, nice girls don’t. It’s exciting, it feels good, everybody wants it, it’s what you’re for. You’re ugly. You’re flaunting yourself. This is how they do it on TV, in books, how normal people do it. The proper way. No wonder I have some screwed-up responses, eh? The infernal lust raging within me was never satisfied with replicating these examples – but admitting to dissatisfaction would be rude, no? After all that effort you put in?! What’s wrong with this creature?
Will you be disappointed if I didn’t make you think you’re a sex god? Will you be disgusted if I ask for this, or frustrated if I don’t get off on that? Will you still like me in the morning? Girls exist for guys to fuck but I am a strong independent woman. Sex as an enjoyable pastime is a natural thing but this slut has an unholy appetite. Fake it to make it. It takes conscious effort to stay engaged, I sideslip into fantasy to spur my effortful enthusiasm. What if I told you all these thoughts, would you understand or would you need to ‘fix’ me? Can’t risk that. Better to show you a facade that makes you feel good, than to be vulnerable myself. After a while, it becomes a habit. Then a prison. The locks stay resolutely unpicked.
Decades of sex that left me feeling guilty, cheated, disappointed, resigned. Always chasing it, desperate to find something I’d never recognised but knew existed, satisfaction. Burning brightly with electricity, connections sparking and arcing between us, drawing us together. Clothes off and…..oh. The usual moves, the usual words. The usual results. It’s easy to be fucked hollow when you never let yourself be filled in the first place. Resignation.
Move like this, make sounds like that. Arrange my features in an appropriate display of ecstasy. Somewhere in all of this, the thrill of it all has gone. A job well done has come to exclude being done well. Partnered, I painted by numbers, never spilled outside the lines. If I can’t then you shall; I’ll feed your lust with whatever confection I can find or make. What do I want? Too shy to show you, too scared, too scarred.
What I always wanted; to have the burdens of assumption lifted from my shoulders. Not to worry about whether I’m doing it ‘right’. Nothing assumed, implied, unspoken. To negotiate – what we’ll do, how we’ll do it. Parameters set and met. Pain without malice, denial without spite. Exhilaration and eroticism To admit and enjoy that my pleasure springs from yours; touch, sound, sight, are secondary to my dizzy cunt-slicking desire to lose myself in submission, and that’s okay. To relax and accept your will without worrying about mine. To be fucked like a rag doll, taken captive, feasted upon, made to jump and dance and kneel, treasured as a prized possession.Restraints free me from the awkwardness of working out where my limbs should go. A gag absorbs my stock library of ingrained responses, muffling my artifice. A blindfold forces my gaze inward, allowing experience to replace performance. The explicit honesty and structures of good kink practice transform the tightrope of trepidation into a safety net. I can quiet my mind, open my soul, let what is absorb what should or would or might be. React, not represent. Feel. Be.
This is the true and honest me, stripped of illusion, flayed of my carapace, shorn of distraction. Vanilla nearly drowned my joy – only kink can slake my thirst.
I’m aware that vanilla sex can – should, if practised with honesty and respect – be as pleasurable and fulfilling as kink. I just never seemed to be able to manage that myself, until….well, that’s another story….