Thinking about fucking

‘ve written a lot over the years about my relationship to fucking.

I’ve been a very sexual person from a very young age. I started jerking off around 12. I started “fooling around” at 13. I fucked for the first time – what we fetishize as “losing my virginity” – at 17.

Between 13 and 17, I had all sorts of sex – lots of kissing, fingering, oral sex. But no fucking.

At 17, I began a couple-year-long streak of lots of fucking. There was F – the older girl (woman) I first fucked. There was J, whom I fucked the next night. There was J2, whom I dated through my first year of college, and with whom I had all sorts of fun sex nearly every day.

At 19, my mom died. And my mom’s death put a substantial kink in my fucking. I mean, not directly. But if I look back over my history, it was right around when my mom got sick that my relationship to fucking shifted.

In the years since I started this blog, there are really three chapters (as it relates to fucking): 2011-2016, 2016-2021, and 2021-now. In the first period? I was, actually, doing a fair amount of fucking. If you look back at my accounts of the sex I had, it featured a lot of what people mean when they say “sex,” a lot of instances of my cock sliding into the slippery, wet cunts of women. Fucking – even in that period – didn’t rise to the level of cock-sucking or cunnilingus in my imagination. But I still did a lot of it. Almost always in the same way: either me on the bottom, a woman riding me, or in some sort of modified missionary position, me on top, fucking a woman beneath me. Never doggy-style, or sideways, or against a wall, or a door, or in more creative positions. I never craved it. I never did it. And, most important: I often lost my erection when fucking, in this period, and always.

I’m not a guy, generally, for whom erections are elusive. I get hard easily. I stay hard easily.

But fucking has never kept my cock reliably hard. And it’s never been my quarry.


In all the writing I’ve done here, I’ve often theorized that there’s something in my relationship to aggression that gets in the way of my fucking. Most typically, I’ve thought something like, “I’m scared of killing women with my aggression, and I protect myself – and them – from that danger by rendering the whole fucking thing impossible.” This may well be right. Or more likely, it may well hold some truth.

Lately, though, I’ve been thinking about it all a bit differently.

Close readers of this blog know that a feature of my sexuality is my preternatural control over my orgasm: I happily can lay back and receive a 15-minute, 30-minute, 1-hour, 3-hour, or longer blowjob. I can come when I want. After a minute. After three hours. And at pretty much any time along the way. This is true 99.5% of the time when my cock is being sucked. It’s true 99.9% of the time when it’s being jerked off. And it’s true… something like 80% of the time when I’m fucking.

I haven’t written up my latest date with Charlotte because reasons. But we fucked. And it was fun. And we came almost at the same moment. Not precisely at the same moment: I lost control and came about five seconds before she did. I could tell she was close, so I didn’t slow down, didn’t let up, and it was damned close to a simultaneous orgasm. But it wasn’t a simultaneous orgasm. I lost control. I came not when I wanted to, but when my body gave in. It was close enough for government work, as they say; it wasn’t the grail of simultaneous orgasm. And, it wasn’t under my control. And the previous time I fucked Charlotte? I also came earlier than would’ve been ideal….

All of which got me thinking.

Maybe… maybe….

There have been two (at least) common features of my recent Charlotte-fuckings:

  1. Premature/uncontrolled ejaculation
  2. My withholding from her, even as I fuck her

I’ve paid attention to that latter feature, surmising that maybe, maybe, what’s made the fucking possible has been the knowledge that, sure, Charlotte wants me to fuck her, but still, when I do fuck her, I do it in a way that withholds from her at least some of what she wants. That I am disappointing her in a way that’s structured, that’s designed by me, that I control.

Add to that, my little pseudo-epiphany about #1. Maybe, just maybe: I am reluctant to fuck because it brings me to a zone in which my control is less absolute, less comprehensive.

I’m reminded of the shy man who doesn’t approach women out of fear of rejection (and in so doing, ensures the functional equivalent of rejection 100% of the time); the B student who never exerts himself, because s/he’s afraid that if s/he does, s/he might not get an A; the self-sabotageur who ensures success never materializes by asserting control in a way that does themself in; the “solosexual” who can’t come with another human. Maybe what I’m up to resembles all these situations: maybe I’m just maintaining control, avoiding a situation of vulnerability, fear – of failure, sure; of disappointment, maybe; of loss of control, absolutely.

So. That’s just a thing that’s rolling around in my head.

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