Why I Have Sex

In her contribution to lg's orgasm extravaganza, meg gives a link to an article called Ask an Academic: Why Women Have Sex. Which of course immediately caused me to ask the same question on a more personal level.

Why do I have sex?

It wasn't a very challenging question.
I have known the answer for a long time.

It's for the intimacy. The actual web of psychological reasons doesn't really matter. It's the need that counts. An almost desperate need for closeness, for connection, for intimacy.

Back in the 60s, as we fought the sexual revolution in our uniforms of bare skin, many of my contemporaries were after pleasure pure and simple. And certainly there was pleasure to be had, though being young and naive and leery of the efficacy of condoms in barring a baby from taking up residence in my 18-year old womb, I refrained from intercourse until I got my hands on The Pill.

mmm... I'm remembering... damn but the pleasure is intense when you're 18 and finally away from home. I'd happily take my clothes off for anyone. But it wasn't really the search for pleasure that drove my minor adventures in what could hardly be termed promiscuity. It wasn't really my rioting hormones. It was that need to touch. To be close. To achieve some illusory semblance of intimacy.

Cut to 40 years later. (You cannot imagine how scary it is to write that... 40 years later... can it really be that long? can I really be that old? Nope. Burn the birth certificate. If people who see me think I'm 40 then so be it. Let my young doms think that they're the ones with a sweet young thing. They certainly manage to make me feel very small and submissive - I've learned never to argue with a dom. Especially when he's a sadist.)

So here I am now. I've learned some things over the years. 10 years ago, S-- taught me about sex as a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon. An evening. A full 23 hours with almost no sleep. He taught me how very pleasant it could be, and in how many ways. And now there is Evan, who fucked me with energy and delight and control and enthusiasm and many many orgasms, and whom I do think I will be seeing again when next we get our schedules to mesh. He's a sweet man, is Evan, if a thoroughgoing workaholic and more than a little cautious. But he makes me feel safe and comfortable and satisfied and happy, and I do look forward to having sex with him again for the pleasure.

And the intimacy.
A relaxed intimacy.

And then
and always
there is my demon muse.
My Master.
My Lord.
My owner.
My life.

As far as sex goes, the sadist has one goal, and one goal only.
His own pleasure.
If I derive pleasure from our time together,
it is purely a side effect.
He's in this for his needs alone.
Or so he says.
If I get to cum, it is for the pleasure he will derive.
If I get high on serving him,
I must never let that interfere with my focus on the job at hand.
Or mouth.
Etc.

If I had read about this a year and a half ago, I would have been enraged. But now...

I'm getting what I need.
I always get what I need.
I get the intimacy,
which is
deeper,
closer,
fiercer,
sweeter,
and infinitely more naked
than anything I have ever known
and anything that you can imagine.

Even with all the rules, the walls, the regulations, the compartmentalization, the limitations, I have never in my entire life felt closer to, more bound to, more intimate with anyone I have every known or talked to or touched or kissed or fucked.

Never.

No one.

Ever.

And I will do anything for such a union.

How can a mere orgasm compare to that?