Fucking Charlotte

Getting a writing prompt from Charlotte reminds me of juicing oranges with my grandmother as a child: she would twist an orange half over the juicer for round one. That’s not the experience brought to mind by asking Charlotte for a prompt.

Then, my grandmother would take the remaining peel, with pulp and a tiny bit of juice left, and wrestle it on the juicer for a solid minute or two, wanting to be sure not to leave even a drop of juice to be wasted down the Dispos-all – to this day, the only such contraption anyone in my family (of origin) ever has owned.

I had the sense this second round was almost entirely performative. I never saw any juice drip out of the spout after round one. But that didn’t stop my grandmother from trying. Hard.

I’ve asked Charlotte for writing prompts dozens of times (it feels like – it may well be fewer). Only a couple of those times have loosed any juice.

On this particular occasion, I told her, don’t spend more than three minutes thinking. And, if three minutes pass and you haven’t given me one, just tell me literally the first thought that passes through your mind.

I didn’t have to wait more than a minute before my phone vibrated: “What it’s like to fuck me,” she had written.

Well then. What it’s like to fuck Charlotte:

First off, readers know that fucking is the salad of my meat and potatoes sexual diet. It’s rarely what I crave. I know it’s good for me. But if my choice is more meat or more (any) salad, I’ll go with meat every time.

Or almost every time.

A few times now (three? four?), and only once in a way that even approached the way she wanted, I’ve fucked Charlotte. From behind, briefly. Missionary. With her ankles pinned by her ears. Tied up. Not. I’ve come while fucking her precisely once. About ten seconds before she did, or would have, had I continued. (It was maybe thirty seconds more before my tongue delivered the orgasm my cock had teased.)

I find fucking challenging, and have done all my life. Sometimes more challenging, sometimes less. But I’m a man whose cock softens occasionally, but only VERY occasionally, when it’s in a pretty mouth. But in a pussy? More often than not, my cock grows limp, or at least too limp to fuck properly. A lot more often than not.

I don’t know why. Maybe because of the hundreds or even thousands of hours I spent with women stroking, squeezing, attending to, my cock with their hands. Though I doubt that, as my relationship to fucking hasn’t changed much since long before my first “happy ending.”

Maybe it’s because of something having to do with death, with aggression, with fear. This makes some intuitive sense to me, as I surely have written. But. As much sense as it may make, it doesn’t resonate for me viscerally, in my body, as an explanation.

What feels most likely, as I think about it? It has something to do with power, control, fear of disappointment, and safety. In short, all the same features that inform my general mode of dominance. When I’ve fucked Charlotte, it’s been because, somehow, in that moment, I either was actively hostile, or at least indifferent, to the question of what she wanted. In each occasion, I found myself able to take something I wanted without feeling like I was giving her what she wanted, even though I knew that she manifestly wanted it.

There were only two times the fucking went on for more than even a minute or two. The first time, I tortured Charlotte’s cock with my cunt, letting her feel (letting me feel) how phenomenal the two feel with the one in the other. Letting her feel that slowly. Teasingly. Placing the tip on her labia, sliding it in SLLLLOOOOWWWWLLLY. Pulling it out. Teasing her again. Driving deep, but slow. Pumping harder a little, but shallow. Making her hungry, rather than satisfying her.

The second time, I pounded her. She was tied up. A fuck toy for me. This was the time we nearly came together.

I have the sense Charlotte wants me to wax eloquent about the sensation of her cunt from my cock’s perspective. I’m afraid I can’t write that very well. I mean, partly, I just don’t write about the physicality of sex very well. But also? I honestly don’t have the clearest recollection of those sensations.

Fucking Charlotte, the times I’ve done so, surely has been fun for me, but what I’ve enjoyed hasn’t been, so much, the fucking itself. What I’ve enjoyed has been, predictably, the place the fucking occupied in our interactions, in our relationship. Maybe most of all, I like knowing that I have something Charlotte really wants, that I’m not giving her. And when I give it to her, I have the delicious simultaneous experience of taking something I want while withholding something she wants. Maintaining that power.

“A pervert fucks with intent, rather than desire,” a wise man wrote. When I read that sentence, I recognized myself. That’s true of me with respect to all sex: it flows from my intent much more than from my desire, from my passion. Which isn’t to say I don’t have desire, I don’t have passion. It’s just that… Well… My passion, such as it is, my desire, such as it is, exist on a layer somewhat subordinate to that of my intent. I have the sense, in a general, ineffable way, that this has something (everything) to do with safety. With fear. With my mother, her abandonment of me.

Fucking always presents me with danger: the danger that I might disappoint, that what I have to offer might not be enough, might not be right, might fail. And at the same time – and this links to what I wrote above, about aggression, about death: I do think that, on some level, I worry my desire, my fucking, might actually harm, or even kill. This isn’t conscious. But I have the sense it’s in the mix.

All this helps explain how fucking is complicated for me, what fucking is like for me, what fucking Charlotte is like for me….

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