There's a lot to be said for sloppy sex. The kind of sweaty, can't-catch-your-breath sex that dampens the sheets – not because the bedroom was too hot to begin with, but because it got overheated during all the physical activity.
Interactions in the Lifestyle are more about the sex than anything else. So, while playtime is fun, the sex is often less vigorous than it would be among fluid-bonded partners. There's sometimes urgency and desire, but rarely the level of carefree passion that drives people into mind-numbing sexual frenzy.
That's just as well, I suppose. A certain amount of caution is required for a single girl. It's a simple matter of protecting my sexual health. No condom means no nookie. Period. Yet, although it may not be politically correct to admit it, I think the medically paranoid atmosphere of the new millennium results in somewhat diminished sexual escapades.
Looking back to my Vanilla days, the pattern tended to be extended sexual drought – one lasted 6 years – sandwiched between long-term, monogamous relationships. Condoms were abandoned as soon as a partner had been around long enough to determine that we were both healthy. Of course, as night follows day, some unresolved issue or sexual boredom would eventually kill the urge entirely, again ensuring that there was no need for condoms.
Today, I recognize that they're required equipment for sexual encounters, and I agree that safer sex really is the only way to play. But I'm not a fan of condoms because those little latex sheaths come complete with a couple of major downers. *snicker*
The biggest one in the Lifestyle is that condoms are a hinderance for any guy who is used to playing without them at home. It could be a physical or mental block, or maybe both, but I haven't seen a married guy yet who could get off while wearing a condom. Instead, he has to stop whatever he's doing, peel it off, then finish some other way – if he can regain the momentum at that point. It leaves me feeling somewhat ineffectual.
By their very nature, orgasms are often finicky and sometimes unpredictable beasts. I don't come every time I have sex and I don't expect a guy to bat 1,000 either. But knowing that a partner has had the full experience can be as important to a woman as it is to a man.
I put myself in his … uh, raincoat – so to speak – and it occurs to me that if frustration was the only result of an encounter, I wouldn't have much incentive to give it a second go some other time. That sort of logic is why, although I've enjoyed discovering women since I started swinging, the idea of sitting through a lap dance isn't at all appealing to me. Doesn't that mean a guy who can't have an orgasm with me might feel the same way?
There's also a kind of deprivation that accompanies condom use. When a guy finishes elsewhere, I don't get to feel his final, deepest thrusts and the pulsating shudders that follow. I'll admit that sometimes the neatness factor is a bonus, but, using condoms eliminates the somehow reassuring sensation of finding a man's salty fluids soaking everything between my legs. Sure, sometimes it's exciting to watch him ejaculate on other areas of my body, but if there's one ingredient I consider mandatory for good sex, it's variety.
The kind of exuberant sex that generates a puddle instead of merely a wet spot – oh, yeah – that's fun, too.