I just wrote about how I don’t really like writing about sex. But this isn’t exactly right.
Many of my posts about sex are in two or more parts – part 1 typically covers the part of the evening that leads up to the sex, and then part 2 is the sex itself. In some instances, there are more parts; in some, just one. But invariably, the word count of the writing I do about the actual sex is a fraction of that I devote to the lead-up.
I’ve written about my most memorable sexual experience before and, upon re-reading it just now, I’m struck by two things: first, by how little of what I wrote actually concerned what most people think of as sex (namely, anything involving anyone doing anything with or to my cock, or my doing anything with my mouth, or my fingers); and second, by how consistent I am, by how recurrent certain themes and vignettes are throughout my play. Back in the day, when I was paying; today, when I’m simply decreeing, it’s all the same: I want a woman to demonstrate her sexual availability, her interest both in sex for its own sake and in the ways in which I want her to be sexual. And the path to that, and the ways in which it all is demonstrated, is hardly varying at all, and yet infinitely fascinating to me.
Do I ask her to take her panties off? In the bar? In the restroom? Put them in her pocket? In mine? Do I ask her to play with herself? Do I smell her fingers? Taste them? To wear boyshorts or bikini briefs? A skirt or a dress? And so on….
I’m not so un-self-aware that I don’t see the constant repetition of all these motifs (and more). Nor am I so un-self-aware that I’m not interested in them.
When L complains that my repetition makes her feel… expendable, disposable… I get that. I understand that if you’ve been a player (whether you’re L, or Jen, or Veronique, or Maxie) in this recurrent fantasy of mine, you could look at another instance of its playing itself out and feel… displaced, replaced, commoditized. I don’t fault her for feeling this.
But what’s most interesting to me is how, even when the words are the same, when the scenarios are similar, to me, they’re entirely different. This is a testament to my poor writing skills, or my poor ability to write about the sensations I feel, rather than the facts of the encounter. Because when I remember two encounters, with two women, that were outwardly similar – say, we met in a bar, I sent her to a hotel room to play with herself and to wait for me, and I arrived some minutes later to do some combination of spanking, licking , and fucking and sucking – they have nothing in common with one another in my memory, even though the blog posts read almost identically.
This, it seems to me, is a challenge I should take up – to make my writing reflect the experience, rather than the outer markings of my experience, the basic facts. Help keep me honest? If I fail at that, call me on it? Please?
It is often difficult to impress upon someone how different they are, how different your experience is with them, when all they see are the things that are the same. It is true though, that doing the same thing isn’t always the same. More than just the partner differs. You may like to kiss that certain spot on her, but you don’t kiss the same way you did years ago, you don’t feel the same way you did before. You’ve grown and learned and improved through your experiences with the ones who came before.
I look forward to reading more of your experience, and not just the making of the experience.
it’s true that the mechanics, the sequential functions of sex challenge the art of writing. but when i read even one word in a sex blog that delights me and fuels my imagination, i am satisfied. as to actual relationships, i maintain that the nidus of a woman’s sexual arousal is the mind. transfer sexual arousal from the loins to the mind, and the possibilities are limitless. wishing you renewed fascination, and the will to put it on paper.
It’s a limit of writing, I think. Words can only convey so much of the senses. We can’t hear, smell, etc., and you have to work within the confines of language. Your writing is very good, though, despite that. More pictures might help, but in reality you can’t really stage your encounters. Extreme close ups showing textures, curves would be hot. What was the fabric of her dress like? Also, a last segment that describes the essence of the encounter, from your point of view — maybe just a list of adjectives describing her or a sentence or two on your feelings would set it apart in your mind and ours.
All good thoughts….
It is very difficult to use words to capture the nuances of an experience, to relate the emotions, the setting, and the mood. Sure maybe the actions are the same on some level but it all those other things and subtle things that make it special. I say when you write if you can tell the difference between them readers will pick up on it too.
That’s what I thought, what I think, but comments and private communications have suggested that may not be so.
I recognize what you say. Sometimes I too feel that my stories about my real life experiences are starting to look and sound the same, but then I remember that I am also using my blog as my journal, which then means that it should not matter that they sound the same. It’s difficult to put all those thoughts and feelings into words, but as long as you are happy with your words, the reader will be too.
I guess. Though the thing that’s hard for me is that there’s a bit of a feedback loop when people with whom I have real-life relationships read my words and are insulted, or feel commodified, or reduced in some way, by them. (Interestingly, it’s thus far only been people with whom I’m NOT having sex who have felt wounded.)
I think you make a very valid point but I think the difference lays in the environment as much as the act. It can be as subtle as the way she smelt, or a certain phrase or line she used, the colour of her eyes, how you felt when she spoke, her taste on your tongue. It is those little things that transform our writing from… ‘part A inserted into part b’ into something much more artistic…. a scene painted with words!
Yeah, that too. But I guess that for me, what I really to struggle to capture in writing is how, even when EVERYTHING else is the same – same environment, same series of actions, etc. – it feels astonishingly different to me when it’s with another person.
Intrinsically they may appear the same. However, an orgasm that has been quickly rubbed out compared to one that has taken a whole afternoon of love making to build. They are both orgasms but they are different. Writing it, defining it is a very hard skill. In my opinion it is one that you do well.
Aw, thanks. [blushes]
I assume that most people actually *like* repetition in their sex-media.
Yes and no, I think. I think most people like certain kinds of repetition – of themes, motifs, etc. But I think we all like a little variety. The challenge, I suppose, is to have enough repetition that we ensure our readers/viewers/partners the confidence they crave that they’ll get what brought them in the first place, but enough variety that it doesn’t feel old.
It’s been awhile, but I’m back! And interestingly enough my recent thoughts echo what you wrote in these two posts. Lately I find myself shying away from writing about sexual experiences (in part because I haven’t had any time for sex in the past few weeks) because of the limits vocabulary imposes on us/me. I wonder though if we think this only because it’s our experiences we’re talking about. Because when I read your posts, even when the situations are similar I never have the feeling that I’m reading the same thing.