quizzical pussy

Laramy was about to get up from his computer chair to do something that was probably a medium amount of pressing when I suddenly grabbed the armrest, wheeled him around and pulled him toward me. Then I kissed him… not super roughly, exactly, but not gently either.

“You know you could just ask me to come over and kiss you, right?” he cocked his head like a very quizzical puppy. Laramy thinks I’m silly. He’s likely correct.

“Sometimes it’s more fun to manhandle you a little,” I admitted. “You know you like it.”

“Yup,” he gave me a reassuring whisper of a kiss; then, pulling back, his lips curled into a little grin. “Hey, do you remember when we first started hanging out, and you were so timid? We just cuddled and kissed a little for weeks and weeks…”

“Yeah. So did it surprise you when you figured out I’m a sex fiend?”

“It did. But it was a good surprise.” I’m usually one of those infuriating people who don’t know how to accept positive statements about themselves without a struggle, but I took his word on that one. I’m sure it was a relief when we finally stopped just cuddling.

Freaks are the best. Whenever there’s a possibility of playing with someone new, I always hope I have a sex-crazed maniac on my hands. Because honestly, if you don’t have a stellar sex drive I’m going to want eight of you. But I’m sure I would be dismayed evaluating myself at first… you know, if I were hoping to fuck myself. I’m a stealth freak. On a first date, for instance, I’m basically just a little warmer than my basic non-flirting technique. I’m not very physical; I probably end up talking less about sex than I do with random strangers or my coworkers. Sadly.

I think I’m almost afraid of how much power sex, orgasms, and by extension anyone who provides me with them, can have over me. I’m also worried about unleashing the full weight of my sexual desire on people. I’m concerned that it will crush them into a bloody, quivering pulp, or worse, turn them off. I guess you could say that my sex drive actually intimidates me, so I don’t hold out much hope for a near-stranger. I’m glad not everyone has hangups like these because then human reproductive activity for sport or species would be like Vogon paperwork: there would be so much senseless delay and complication that nothing new would ever get started.

And that would make the quizzical pussy very sad, to the point where maybe she’d have to suck it up and grab some crotches! Respectfully, of course.

I’m actually horrible about initiating sex, for the aforementioned reasons. I simply don’t do it at all. Being more or less always up for making the beast with two backs, I’ve fallen into the unhealthy habit of always letting other people decide when they want me and just waiting, doing calming breathing exercises, and praying to Our Lady of Thwarted Libido in between these times. It’s not a flawless system, so learning to initiate sex is yet another thing on my “To work on” list. Making out initiation, though? That I can manage to do without an order, signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public enquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months.