The wonderful Mistress Elita had a twitter rant recently about what she described as “whorearchical bullshit” between sex workers offering different services, particularly those who either do, or do not, offer “penis in vagina” sex. The quote marks are intended to indicate my distaste for that expression.
I am definitely not going to get involved, as these things are best left to the sex workers themselves but it got me thinking about just what is or is not “sex”. Elita doesn’t offer penetrative sex and that suits me fine. Not having the pressure to “perform” lets me give myself up to the session with a freedom that might not be there otherwise. However, a reader once commented in a DM “you never describe sex in your blogs”. I went back and read a couple and, even at a distance, the action seemed pretty hot to me. But was it sex? This is how I should have answered:
You say there’s no sex in my sessions but let me ask you this:
Is it sex when she looks deep into my eyes, then slaps my face, holding my gaze, challenging me to take it, daring me to look away; and I look back challenging her to slap me harder, daring her to hurt me more? I may have been in her apartment only a minute, but already we are deeply focussed on each other in our intimate dance of dominance and submission. Might that not be a form of sex?
Is it sex, when I can feel the soft touch of her lips round my nipple at the same time as the pain that comes from her teeth? When I’m so turned on that, as she lifts herself away, I push my chest up against the restraints, my whole body begging her to bite me again. How can something that hot not be sex?
Is it sex, when she flogs me against a hard metal frame, her whip biting into my back and my arse until I’m gasping and crying out from the pain of it, and then when she’s finished she leans the length of her body against the length of mine, touching me from my calves to my neck, a soothing presence against the bruises? At that intimate moment, would we be closer if she had let me copulate with her instead?
Is it sex, when I’m feeling her strap-on thrust deep inside me again and again, the sensation so intense I don’t know if it’s pleasure or pain; her panting from the exertion of fucking, me panting from the exertion of being fucked; her hot skin against mine. That certainly feels like sex; it sounds like sex as we’re doing it and, as we lie together afterwards, I feel the same post-coital glow that you feel after your sex.
Perhaps you’re thinking about situations I’ve described where I’m blindfold, she’s not speaking and the only connection between us is her cane. You’re thinking that can’t possibly be sex. Ah, my friend, for me, that is the most sex of all. At that moment communication between us is all felt, sensed, perceived. Our bodies may not touch but our kinks dance close, entwined around each other. Electricity crackles between the opposite poles of her dominance and my submission. That’s our sex. To be so connected to someone without being connected at all. Might that not be the purest sex of all?
The all embracing mind fuck of dominance, submission, bondage, pain, pleasure; the swirling, glorious, sensual and emotional maelstrom of it all: how can this not be sex? Two bodies, NO! Two minds, intimately intertwined; exchanging sensations, exchanging challenges, pushing each other to the limit.
So, the person asking why I don’t have sex in my posts should perhaps look at it this way: Your Sex May Not Be My Sex But Your Sex Is OK.
I know this though:
My sex is Hot as Fuck!
I had intended to read this at Eroticon but unfortunately can no longer be there on the Sunday. I decided to post it here and on Wicked Wednesday instead.
More wickedness here: