You're My Porn

You don't want to know what I jerk off to, do you, baby?

Does it matter? When I'm fucking you it's completely different than watching porn. Porn is, like you know, fake.

Sure, I get hard watching porn. I jerk off and I cum to it.  But I get hard when I'm with you too. I cum as well. But I'm not thinking of something that can't ever happen (Camille Crimson or Mae Victoria (yeah, Mae Victoria)) ain't going to enter into my bedroom anytime ever. Never place their mouth on me.

I'm thinking of you.

This blog more than anything has made me extra aware of how and what I get hard for. Masturbating is really a personal interior moment, I'm getting in touch with my own sexuality and really sensitive to my own responses to my touch, the liquids, my hand, the sounds, what I'm watching and my (not so) secret fantasies.

The girls I'm looking at (or the guys) are not really here. It's only an illusion.

These anonymous performers are only suggestions for a state of mind, demonstrating sexual abandon and yeah, I get into the "mood" ...and my cock gets hard all right. The more I stroke it the better it feels and my mind gets addled, drunk on dopamine I guess, a self-feeding cycle.

If I don't keep a hand on the edge, I shoot.

But when I'm with you it's like the opposite response; I'm reading your responses. I love the interaction between us; I was never into the fuck-somebody-who-isn't-into-it or isn't even moving.
I love when you move under me, I love when you change position, kiss back, I love when you "try this with my hand here." Knowing I'm getting a response gets me hard, suddenly I have a hard-on and I want to fuck you. Not myself.

Only you say "Try to make it last as long as you can."

I'm not looking at porn to make myself hard. And looking at porn won't make me hard for you.

It isn't what I want (some bimbo getting fucked in the ass). I want to sit across from you. Smell you. Feel your lips. I know there's tension; part of me is still scared to death. Sometimes you won't even take off your camisole. I know you're insecure and all, but when I see you say fuck it - see your commitment - that you're all in, that you're vulnerable, that rewrites the moment.

No script, no mediation, no play-acting. It's funny that even with your pants off, you can still not be entirely "vulnerable".

The test still takes place the whole time. What if I cum too fast? What if I don't cum at all? What if she goes psycho on me? Is this going to "work" - I mean work here in person and the parting is sweet with kisses and a hug or will the phone ring? Will the thoughts crashing through me, still, excite or hinder?

I can't hit pause.

So fuck the problems that might occur, can we do this honest, intense, dirty, hot as fuck, terrible messy, and beautiful thing?

And survive. To know the vulnerability is "okay." That I share with you and get inside your head, you inside mine, inside your body, let you put your mouth on me, let go.  Hell, after a year and years, there's still more foreplay to do.

Foreplay is a question. To know that we fit, to know I love the way you taste, to know you were comfortable with me between your legs, sorry about the errant hair, we can drink together, laugh, sit naked, not be alone for a moment.

Those videos don't make me hard in the same way; they don't stroke me back.

You're my porn.