The Fuctionality of Sex

Hey everyone! Just wanted to thank you again for reading! This week I'm giving you two posts that are very different because love and sex are often interchangeable in society. I wanted to dispel that in my posts. Make sure to read The Lucidity of Love.

 

I'm also doing something a bit new! Stories can speak from the page, but the voice has a way of bringing them to life. I record myself often, but wanted to share those recordings with you. So either listen to the audio or read the text right below the audio. Or do both! Let me know if you like it! 

Text: 

He text me, drunk. I could tell by the way he kept making typos as he asked me what I was up to for the night. I looked at the messages every ten minutes while music blasted in this hot, sticky ass dorm room. I still hadn’t answered and I knew with my luck I’d run into him. So I finally responded, and told him I would be at his room at about 1am. It ended up being around 1:15am.

My friend asked me why I was leaving the party; I lied and said I was going to sleep. Didn’t need everyone in my business about every single guy I slept with. I went into my room, changed into some sweats and walked over to the elevator. This year I consolidated my men into one building; the very one I lived in. It was convenient, but also had the potential to be extremely messy. Nonetheless, I headed to his floor, hesitant because he was drunk and I was sober. Its only fun when both of you are in the same state of mind. And to be completely honest, the last time him and I fucked, it was…boring. But, I was having a bit of a dry spell and was hoping the alcohol made him better.

I took my hair out of the ponytail and exited the elevator. I remembered that his room was all the way at the end of the hall and took a deep breath before walking. The bright white lights blinded me as I tried to figure out which door was his. I got there and text him, not wanting to knock and risk the awkwardness of seeing one of his suitemates, most likely the one I knew. He swung open the door and pulled me inside. We whispered niceties and walked downstairs to his room. As soon as we got in, he grabbed my face and started kissing me. Too much and too fucking fast. That went on for about five minutes and then he started pawing at my clothes. I was annoyed. But, once I start something, I like to finish it. I started telling myself that last time wasn’t so bad and maybe he’d fuck me right this time.

Every man before him (and during) fucked me so well, it was unheard of. From the moment I lost my virginity, up until that very moment, I was a spoiled princess. My friends would share stories of bad sex, and I couldn’t relate. My men were good to me. Each of them deemed important in the moment. See for me, sex was never just a thing to do to pass time. I made sure that if a man was having sex with me, we were enjoying ourselves. It was a production of sorts, that I would vary depending on the man and the circumstance. I liked sex. I enjoyed it. I loved the way that desire could be reached in the most particular moments. I loved how I could look down at my partner and if I smiled, he would smile, because that’s how connected we were in that moment. I wasn’t a big talker, but I found a way to express myself vividly and clearly. I knew I was good at sex.

But when this man started fucking me, I began thinking about what homework assignment I had to finish the next day, and I knew something was wrong. I didn’t even want to put effort into the act. Maybe it was my ego, maybe I wasn’t as good as I thought and it was boring the last time because of me. Then I remembered that I had amazing sex the week after him, so he was the issue. As he was working himself up, grunting and breathing heavily, I planned my escape. My ear was hot from his breath and I was getting stiffer as the moments went on. It felt like I was getting poked and it wasn’t cute or funny at all. Then he licked my ear, and I could hear the clinking of my earrings as they were in his mouth. What. The. Fuck. I had to go.

“This isn’t working.”

He stopped and looked at me confused, so I repeated myself, and then nudged him off me. I walked to the corner of his room, and put each of my garments on slowly. He stared at me the whole time, in shock. Each sneaker was tied, twice for extra measure. I got up, looked at him, smiled, and walked to the door.

“Bye.” I said.

That was the last time I ever jeopardized my standard. I was going to keep being a spoiled princess, the crown fit me.