“I want to have sex like…”

[This post is inspired by the “I want to have sex like…” series over at Demisexual and Proud, whose writing has been super instrumental in helping me understand myself well enough to even begin to write this. Content note: this post contains references to sexual dominance and submission, masochism, and masturbation]

I have been thinking *a lot* lately about what it is I get from having sex with other people. Or, rather, what I want to get from it, and why I do it at all.

The thing is that I really enjoy the experiences of sexual arousal and orgasm, but I can have those things just fine on my own, no need for anyone else to be involved. (For me) there isn’t some special level of physical pleasure that can only be achieved with other people – I can give myself the best possible orgasms just fine on my own.

But sex with other people is also important to me. When there are other people on my life that I am into in that way it is, anyway.

So, why?

It is clear to me that there is something about the emotional texture of sexual encounters that is vitally important to me, something about the kinds of emotional expression and connection that can happen that is the key to the whole thing for me.

And it is hard to nail down precisely what I want from that, because it isn’t totally stable or always the same, but there are definitely some themes that it is worthwhile to tease out and identify in particular.

The thing about me is that sex is never really about “I want this particular kind of physical stimulation/this particular arrangement of bodies and parts”. It’s almost entirely an emotional/intellectual experience for me, and the physical combinations are just coincidental, almost.

Here goes nothing:

I want to feel desired. I want to feel like my partner’s/partners’ lust is specifically about me and not just a generalized horniness. I want my sexual encounters to be specifically about me and the people I have sex with. This is so, so important. I don’t want to understate it. But also I don’t think it is even remotely enough on its own.

I want to feel taken care of/cared for. Sex is one of many aspects in a relationship where a partner has an opportunity to make me feel special, and valuable, and worthy of effort and care, I really need that. I want my body to be played like a musical instrument, to produce amazing melodies of my pleasure. Though it is actually possible for me to have too much of this, because:

I want to reciprocate that caring. It is, similarly, very important to me to be able to figure out how to give specific pleasure to my partners, to feel a direct connection between what I am doing and their expressions of pleasure. It is such a powerful feeling, that experience. And that alone is often all I need, even, as long as it isn’t the only thing, all the time.

I want us to be in it together. For me, this is about more than just both of us being happily involved and enjoying ourselves, even. Ultimately, it is important for me to know that I and anyone I am having sex with have a similar understanding of the acts we are engaging in, and of their significations when we do them. This is important, and complicated, and difficult, because I will be the first to tell you that there are no acts in sex that have stable “meanings” or imply singular dynamics.

If a partner is hitting me, it could mean that I am being submissive, and I am just absorbing whatever sensations they are choosing to throw at me. It could also be that it is something I have demanded of them, and that they are doing as a form of submission to me. Or it could just be something I asked for from a peer as we collaborate in mutual pleasure. What’s important is that we both understand whichever instance in the same (or at least similarish) way.

I want to be able to explore the different social-emotional permutations of the same things. For me, this is really the heart of queer sex.

I want spontaneity and improvization. I want to throw out every script for what sex is or how it is supposed to work. I want to kill the entire concept of “foreplay” in the fire of a thousand suns. Touching me in ways that turn me on shouldn’t be about getting me aroused so that I can then move on “real” sex.

I want to take the scenic route, and I don’t care if we ever get to whatever destination other people think we should be aiming for. If a thing is working, that should be the thing we are doing, not a stepping stone to some other more expected thing. My positive responses are an encouragement to continue the thing you’re doing, not a magic signal that you get to level up now. There are few things more disappointing to me than having a partner react to my positive feedback by deciding it’s time to move on and try something else.

Really, though, there are really almost no set “rules” for how to make my body respond with arousal, pleasure and orgasm. Trying to set them based on past success and follow them will usually backfire, because the important thing is for things to not be the same all the time. I need spontaneity in order to actually be in the moment, really. And when I am fully present in that way, I am regularly surprised by how my body responds to new or uncommon stimuli, and that’s half the fun.

Like, there have been times when I have randomly been brought to (sometimes even multiple!) orgasm by having my head scratched, or my gums massaged, or just from holding my breath. I have even had empathy orgasms from seeing/perceiving/experiencing my partner’s approach to and experience of orgasm. Orgasming because of literally anything other than the expected things is pretty much my superpower. My body is fucking weird and unpredictable and I love it so much. And when someone is willing to really engage with it, to play and explore with me, we have so much fun together!

I want playfulness. All these things I say about deep feelings and intense connections don’t have to be serious business, ok? I am a person who is going to want to laugh when someone’s bodies (or the combination of bodies) makes funny noises. Because it’s funny. Because sex isn’t serious and we don’t need to pretend our bodies aren’t the weirdest frigging things in the world. They are. And the things people do with them in the name of sex are weird (like seriously, I’m gonna put this kinda dangly part of myself into some other part on you, mmmkay? And people like to act like that’s not the weirdest idea ever, but it is, ok?) We are doing weird shit with our bodies, and sometimes it is funny, and that is important to me, too.

Above all, I want sex to be deeply communicative. This sort of runs though all of my other points, too. I want our bodies to be able to converse and understand each other. I want to feel seen and understood, not just verbally, rationally, or intellectually, but viscerally, physically, emotionally and ultimately metaphorically, in ways I can only express non-verbally. And that is a very high bar to set, but it is so worth it when I get it.

And, ok, I mean, that is a *lot* of pressure to put on sex. And anyway, some of these emotional aspects are just generally important romantic relationship things (feeling cared for, desired, and valued; being able to collaborate in mutually pleasurable activities; and remaining spontaneous and continuing to discover new things about each other all have non-sexual relevance). I don’t need all of these things all of the time (I am, in fact, perfectly happy with a purely lustful quickie on occasion!), and some of them are preferences/ideals than requirements. The only things I absolutely need are points 1-3. And those can for the most part be established outside the sexual context.

Really, because I am demisexual, the emotional context of a relationship is where desire begins and ends for me. Loving and being loved are what desire is for me, they are the only way I understand it. The bottom line is that if I don’t feel love, and if I don’t feel *loved*, then I’m not going to be able to access any of the other stuff that makes sex awesome for me. The best I can do is go through the motions.

If I’ve learned one thing from my occasional attempts to have sex with people for whom I don’t feel that kind of desire, it’s that I’d usually much rather masturbate. So.

8 comments

  1. I think you describe the different layers that make up your wishes for sex really well, Kasey. It’s good to read, and yes, a lot of it resonates. Most of all that it’s all about the emotion, the togetherness. And how that’s an absolute prerequisite too. But richly described.

    It’s also really interesting to me because I approach it from the point of view of “I haven’t had sex, what would I actually want?” and you approach it more from having had some actual experience and untangling what you liked about it.

    1. Yes, I actually almost explicitly identified that difference in my intro blurb. Reading your posts about it makes me wish so hard that I had had anything resembling the kind of vocabulary I have now for understanding myself. I have spent so much time trying to fit into allosexual narratives of sex and now I am desperately trying to undo the damage and hurt that’s caused me in some ways :/

        1. Oh goodness, that is a big question! Most of the work I’ve been doing is really just about sitting with my feelings and paying attention to myself and my body. I used to spend a lot of time trying to round up my experiences of aesthetic attraction to sexual attraction, and when following through on that left me feeling unhappy (or, sometimes, just… blah), I wouldn’t understand it.

          These days, I’m all about not making myself move forward with things if they don’t feel totally right. Like, I don’t need to try to fit the way I relate to people sexually into the format I’ve been trying to, or expect dating to work for me the way it does for my friends or my spouse-person. It doesn’t. And that’s ok. And I’m trying to really internalize that, basically.

          1. Reflection takes a lot of work and having a different, healthier framework for that definitely helps. I’m noticing I’m way more comfortable with not feeling attracted to people on sight, and distinguishing different feelings in sexually-loaded contexts, a few months in now. It’s a small change, but one that feels really good. Even though it means I’m closer to sex-indifferent than I initially thought.

  2. As someone who was raised Catholic and had the good fortune to receive a relatively progressive presentation of sex (that pleasure and enjoyment and mutuality were supposed to be part of it), I have to say that what you’ve written is the most spiritual description of sex that I’ve ever encountered.

  3. I love your description of what sex means, and it’s very similar to my own feelings. But then I get sad because it seems like that’s not what most of the world wants. Sometimes it feels like finding a compatible partner is an impossible goal. :(

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