So, after miraculously breaking the bad-sex-spell without even having thought about it first (which you can read about here: https://mascarastreaks.wordpress.com/2013/09/01/the-first-fuck-was-the-sweetest/ ) I had to remember, or relearn what sex is supposed to be about.
My Canadian boy in Bangkok had such a sweet mouth, I loved hearing him tell me how hot my body was, how wonderful I tasted, him asking me to do things to me and telling me the things that he wanted to do. That turned me on as much as the sex. Instantly. Everywhere. I loved it.
The second or third day, we were wrapped up naked in each other in a hammock and moving really slowly and lazily, stopping and starting again and then he suddenly looked annoyed/stressed and said to me “Are you even enjoying this – I don’t know”. I was so shocked as I LOVED it and told him so. “You’re so quiet, how am I supposed to know?”
Of course, he was right, but I hadn’t even , aware of my reticence until it was pointed out. I don’t think I know how to talk dirty, I said. “You do, you just stop talking as soon as we start having sex, which is weird because you hardly shut your mouth the rest of the time”.
I was in shock as it wasn’t something I’d (even had to) think about for a very long time. I made a quick joke about having my mouth full and that being the reason why I didn’t say much, but I was reeling a little.
I remember early on in my long-dead-relationship, when things were still really good, asking the ex to talk dirty to me in bed. I was still a naughty young thing, then. It was diabolical. I still remember recoiling. “You dirty bitch, you slut, you’re a little slag – you love it, you little cunt”. It went down like a ton of shit. I hated it.
It turned me off. Not only for the lack of imagination, but for the degrading nature of the words, they weren’t sexy/naughty/filthy, they just felt abusive, degrading and completely unimaginative with misogynous undertones. Not that hot at all. I never asked him again.
I remember, too, asking him for particular things to be done a particular way, because that’s what felt good for me. Specifically, I could only take a few minutes of him going down on me at a time before it becoming excruciating. There’s a critical point that I get to where the line between pleasure and pain is crossed. When that line is crossed, it takes a long time for everything to calm down so that I can trying to reach those pleasure peaks again. If, after you say the same thing several times and it gets ignored, your mind (& body) starts to clam up, too. I’d managed to internalise these experiences and taken them forward without realising. A shock to the system to realise.
Learning to talk about and during sex again was much harder than remembering to do it. But it’s as pleasurable, even if I still feel self-conscious about it. Communication is key, or what is the point, even?
After the trauma of the end of a long and painful(ly boring) marriage in which we’d barely even ‘made love’ for the last couple of years, yet alone fuck with wild abandon; I decided to see if the other cliches in life were true.
So, I booked myself and my excited slightly broken heart on a fight to Bangkok, wondering what the fuck I was doing, whether this was a big mistake, whether I’d be okay travelling on my own in a place I knew nothing about. I felt scared and alone.
Little did I know, that in a matter of hours, I’d rediscover the naughty adventurous me and that I’d be having the wildest, sweetest sex with a beautiful blonde cheeky Canadian who became (& still is) my boy in Bangkok.
It’s strange how you can carry around these mental shackles that are created in routine and over-familiarity and under-imagination. They can feel formidable and permanent, so much a part of you that you don’t even know that they are there anymore. They become disguised as pieces of mental furniture, rather than chains.
I landed, found my way to the backpacking district on a wild-eyed and hairy tuk-tuk journey through the brightly lit chaotic streets of Bangkok. I clutched a piece of paper with a list of hostels that someone on the fight had kindly made for me, and hoped for the best, walking down this noisy street, overwhelmed with the crowds of beautiful tanned and drunken people around me.
I walked into the first hostel I saw, took a room, changed, took a deep breath and forced my wobbly legs to take me outside, to see what this brave new world of mine had to offer. I didn’t make it very far. A group sat at a table outside the hostel were sat under a tree drinking and laughing and I got invited over. A few toasts to liberty and adventure later and I was drunk on the feeling of liberty and adventure, I was giggly & witty & I caught the eye of this cheeky, naughty Canadian, who kept teasing me. We went for a little walk and underneath a big palm tree, he grabbed me and asked me to kiss him.
I froze, but only for a moment. I hadn’t really been thinking about sex and men on this trip until then. I had thought that part of me was broken, if not dead. That’s how become to increasingly feel when I was married. All that was forgotten as I felt his arms tighten around me as I tiptoed up to kiss him.
The silver lining on the cloud of sexual repression, frustration and forgetting what your libido is, is that it’s all there underneath, brewing, whether you’re aware of it or not, and the pleasure of relief is like no other. I was taken by surprise by the urgency that suddenly overwhelmed me and I dragged this cheeky thing back to my room, trying to remember where the condoms I’d packed just-in-case were.
It was a beautiful beginning to a wonderful trip. Without realising it, I’d somehow managed to instantly forget what I thought I knew. I’d forgotten that sex was supposed to be fun, funny and exciting, and it was. Sex was a beautiful and good thing, no sex was better than bad sex, and it was so good to have good sex again! I could barely walk for the first couple of days, such pain in my muscles, but such pleasant pain, and such a big smile on my face, in spite of my wincing.