Wednesday, 16 December 2009

Stewing About an Argument About Sex

There are different kinds of sex. In the same way that I enjoy a varied diet of anything, I like them all - but none to the exclusion of all others. Virgil sends me a message yesterday saying I miss you. We are both working at home, me in quotation marks and him for real with his nose to the grindstone.

I decide to go and work in his warm spacious flat. This morning we lie in bed, curled around each other like sleepy mustelids, but we don't have sex. We are companionable but preoccupied. I get out my books. He sits at his computer. We work. Mid-morning we stop for sausage and scrambled egg.

My attention has started to wander. After breakfast I pull him into the bedroom and onto the bed. He pulls my legs off the bed and holding me around the thighs pulls down my tracksuit bottoms to expose my pussy. His tongue and fingers play around the top of my clit and I am straightaway very excited.

Virgil knows all about how to please me with his tongue but I don't want this and quite soon I push him away and tell him that I want him to take his clothes off so that I can touch him too. I say I want to lick his balls.

No, he says. We're playing clothed man naked woman and I'm clothed and you're naked.

I say that I want sex. He replies that we don't have time to do that properly but if I don't want a blow job I don't have to have one.

I agree and pull away, which I don't think he was expecting. I am angry. I don't want a fucking 'service'. I have been building up to an expression of discontent for some time. It's ok to be made to come with oral sex and then fucked for a few minutes. It's enough but it's not a feast.

For me, and many other women, good sex leads less to satiety and more to greed. Good sex makes me want more. To my disappointment I have never cracked the art of multiple orgasms (Hitachi Magic Wands don't count) but I can have a few. More important, it's the unhurriedness, the becoming absorbed in the act and in each other that I want.

I jump up and dress. I want to go. I'm turned on and annoyed. Instead Virgil makes me sit on the sofa and talk. I tell him some of the things that have been on my mind. I say that I understand that he's been working so hard recently but that he needs to understand that perfunctory fucks and oral sex are no substitute for the kind of sex that I need.

There are two unfairnesses at the core of today's heterosexual politics, at the very least in mine and Virgil's relationship. The first is that the male (Virgil) must spend a quite disproportionate length of time pleasing his partner. He must delay his own relatively meagre and easily attained blips of sexual gratification and focus instead on the female's sexual pleasure. He must help her (Harlot) to reach her full potential and find new ways and places in which to have more and better orgasms.

The other unfairness, unfortunately, is that in this electorate of two Virgil holds the casting vote on whether sex actually happens. It's not even simply that his cock is either hard or it's not. I cannot make him. I cannot even pressure him. Sometimes I writhe with frustration.

Virgil says he doesn't want to be in a relationship which is a war. I know he is right, that we are not on opposite sides but are in this together. I also feel guilty for trying to take him away from his work. I'm still horny and on edge. I'm not making a very good job at keeping my feelings to myself. I'm huffing and stabbing away at the keyboard as Virgil does something with Google Adwords and he comes to ask what is wrong.

I wish it was so simple to just go and get satisfaction somewhere else. I simply could not. To fuck someone else while I am angry with Virgil and in place of having sex with him is so beyond the pale that I can't stand the thought of it.

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