I don’t really like fucking – I wish I did, but I don’t. My relationship to fucking has confused me for much of my adult life. I love sex, but rarely have found myself truly wanting to fuck. At times, for years at a time, I have fucked. In the first four or five years of this blog, most of my dates included fucking. Even then, though, I often wrote about how attenuated was my desire to fuck, how fucking is salad to the steak that is oral. Back then, it was mostly something I did for my partners, rather than to them. And then, mostly, in a lazy, on-my-back kind of way. And, often, I would lose my erection 5, 10, or 20 minutes into a fuck, before coming. I’ve even faked more than one orgasm.
I talked a good game, and drove hips hard with my strong hands, bringing that position as close to a dominant fuck as possible. But. I knew the truth.
Missionary? Sometimes.
Doggy-style? Almost never.
I told myself this had something to do with physical sensation, with the stimulation available to my particular cock – a cock I long imagined tiny, but was coming to understand to be not just normal, but delightful.
I told myself it had something to do with my physical fitness: in my fat days, strenuous anything was close to out of the question.
These hypotheses all may well have had some truth to them. Only some, though. As I started visiting sex clubs and parties, I saw guys in worse shape, with smaller cocks, cheerfully, confidently pounding away in just about every position.
Why couldn’t I do that? Why wasn’t that me?
I don’t have a single, simple answer. What I know, though, is this: as never before, I’m engaged with the question, trying to understand my body’s communication better. If possible, of course, I would love to change this circumstance, to find a love – and capacity – for fucking that long has eluded me. But I’m old enough – and self-accepting enough – to note that I seem to have organized a pretty fulfilling sex life without it. If fucking never returns, it if it does, but only to its previous salad-not-steak position, I’ll be just fine with that. Mildly disappointed, but just fine.
In the meantime, here are a few random thoughts, questions, observations, hypotheses on the subject that have swirled around my head in recent days:
Maybe, were I to fuck, I would be the fully heterosexual man my father never was, removing the asterisk from my heterosexuality. Maybe this scares me somehow.
Maybe there’s something else about full-throated straightness that turns me off, repels me.
Maybe there’s something about my cock as the subject of an act, rather than its object, that scares me. It’s not lost on me that, when my cock is attended to, it’s almost always hard; when it’s doing the work, it’s much less hard.
Maybe there’s something about control, about the preternatural control over my orgasm I exercise when my cock is the object, that becomes even slightly less available when fucking. Maybe this scares me.
Maybe I worry about aggression, about harming a woman when I’m thrusting, impaling her.
Maybe it has something to do with my many snippets of shame in the face of unanticipated judgment. Like this. Or this. Or this.
In recent years, most fucking I’ve done has been almost a form of torture, or denial: going slow when she wants it fast and hard; entering and exiting when she wants it in her; fucking briefly and stopping. Maybe if I’m not giving, but taking; not giving, but withholding, it’s safe for me?
Something about being able to win a woman’s desire in spite of my not fucking her. Maybe that makes me extra-special? Maybe it’s a different kind of Oedipal triumph over my dad? Maybe both?
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