Content note: Vaguely described sex, with one explicit (and potentially gendered) term for genitals right at the end of this post.
I push the sugar bowl, the bag, the random thing between us to the side, opening a direct line. I turn more of my body towards you. I begin moving slower and more deliberately. Like other dances, this requires full-body focus, a sizzle of curiosity, an ounce of advance trust.
I play with my hair, my hem, my cutlery. I eat something and casually lick my fingers (are you paying attention?). I lean towards you, chin on hand, eyes sparking. Raise my eyebrow. I blush. I can’t stop grinning. My fingertips slide along my collarbone. I find some part of you that I can’t stop looking at — your mouth, your hands, your eyes, that little scar, the perfectly neat fade of your hair, that shadow where your skin disappears under carefully chosen cotton or leather. We haven’t touched each other, but this is indeed a dance.
After yet another accidental touch, I don’t draw back. Just wait and let the change ripple out underneath the surface. I release a few more square inches of arm or thigh into you, a little more weight (will you hold this?). I uncross my legs and recross them, weaving heels and calves between chairs and boots. I don’t pull down my skirt again. I lean closer; breath becomes audible. Pauses grow important as time disappears.
These are not accidents. I part my lips, a soft gasp in response to that particular touch of yours. I arch my neck, skin stretched over throat while my eyes close. A sigh, a shiver. I bend my head, bones bumpy beneath my hair. I find new surfaces on my body to offer to your gaze, your touch; to lean into you. I uncross my legs. I realize my hand is resting on your thigh but I don’t remember putting it there.
Getting up means untangling all of these layers and limbs and hoping the thread between us doesn’t break, survives the transition from here to there.
I let myself be slowly pushed into a wall, arch my back to allow your hand to pass behind me, tilt my head to give you access to my skin. My lips part, my tongue becomes impatient for yours, yet I stay where I am and wait for you to decide when (the most delicious anticipation). I shift my arm out of the way, unblocking the path of your hands on my body. I purr, moan, tremble in response to your touch.
I slowly sink back, onto the bed, the sofa, the nameless surface under us while we keep kissing. My legs drop open at the slightest nudge. My hands fall away, useless, forgotten. My hips roll towards your hand, your thigh, finding the angle that is just right, right now.
Head arched all the way back, eyes closed. Heels finding root, hands grabbing for a hold somewhere, anywhere. Cunt pushing into you. Fuck. Fuck.
I’ve recently read a few posts and articles that seemed to imply that ‘consent’ in the context of sex and kink means ‘asking for and granting permission for every single step in a specific formula of speech.’ I believe that is an utter misunderstanding of how consent and communication work in real life. I hope this piece proves that there are many other ways to say “yes” than just words. I have done all of these things, usually more than once, although probably not in this exact order and perhaps not every single one with the same person. And while this particular piece of writing doesn’t have a strong emphasis on pain or on an obvious power dynamic, the experiences it describes all happened in a BDSM context.
(That said, despite my love for nonverbal communication — I am a dancer after all —, I’m still a huge fan of and strong advocate for verbal negotiations when it comes to BDSM and/or sex. Partly for safety reasons, especially when partners are new to each other or unfamiliar with a technique. But mostly because talking about kink/sex with people I’m attracted to and who are attracted to me is fucking hot.)