I had two awesome, very different, dates recently, one with Lexy, one with Annica (about whom you’ve not yet heard). I wrote up those dates for you, and they’ve both languished in the hands of those two very sexy ladies for, I think, very similar reasons.
Annica, reading my account, said, “I would have described it more positively.” I told her that, for me, the sex was very positive. “Oh well it definitely didn’t read extremely positive to me. [Your account] felt dispassionately neutral.”
I struggle with this, often.
What excites me most about sex, and even more, about writing about sex, is rarely the sex. I like writing about the lead-up, about the ratcheting of hope and expectation, about the moments that lead to consummation, much more than about the consummation itself. I wish I wrote sex better. But I don’t.