rolledtrousers:

It’s not a pretty thing, fucking. It’s not a very pretty word either, come to think of it. And while the phrase ‘making love’ is used, occasionally, I always feel like that’s more about the preamble, the caresses and the kisses, rather than the sweating and the pumping. 

Good. I don’t want it to be gentle. I don’t want it to feel comfortable, or pleasant, or ‘just right’. At least, not unless you wedge an expletive between the two. Or maybe shove it at the front, with an exclamation point jammed between it and the ‘just’. I’m getting sidetracked.

Sex shouldn’t be delicate. It needs to be raw, and visceral, because anything other than that delicious mix between pain and pleasure, treading the line so precariously, would be a disservice to how fundamental a pleasure it really is. How powerful the emotions that rocket between us really are. Not that you can’t fuck delicately, but you’re still fucking, and there’s still those little gasps and moans, that let you know that it’s not entirely rainbows and flowers. 

So squeeze your eyes shut. Furrow your brow. Clench every last muscle in your body, and lets get your knuckles whiter than an Englishman’s arse. Let’s have you gasp, and wince just a little. Let’s step along that knife edge, and amble into pain, meander into pleasure. Let’s establish a border, and let’s use a few expletives.