The other night John Brownstone fucked me so good. I wanted him and (for once) used my words. But somewhere in the middle, my body stopped responding.
My mind was there for it. Pound me harder! Pull my hair! Fuuuuuuuck meeeeeee!
But once a cunt goes dry, it’s a bit like trying to rub two sticks together to start a fire. It was pure friction and not in a way that felt good. There’s good pain and there’s bad pain. This was bad.
So bad I closed my eyes and hoped he’d finish soon.
Why the hell didn’t I just speak up? For too many common reasons.
Needing lube isn’t a weakness…
Want me to say that a little louder for people in the back? Needing lube isn’t a weakness! I know it, and hopefully, so do you. But damn if I didn’t place the blame on myself.
It’s my body, my cunt, and my lack of necessary wetness so it must be me, right? No.
Bodies are funny things. They don’t always do what you want them to do. As long as my mind was still into it and I consented, going dry wasn’t a fault. It was simply a problem to be solved.
As much as I love the lube we use, I didn’t want to admit to this thing I perceived as a problem, a weakness.
Proving how little I still know about bodies and sex, I thought he might not notice. *Eye roll* Of course he noticed! It was his cock that felt like it was getting a rug burn, too.
Sometimes it’s hard to admit…
In the past couple of years, I don’t get as wet as I once did. Blame it on anxiety, weight gain, long-term pain, and/or medication I’ve taken. But the gushy wetness of my early 30s has given way to a slow-simmer dampness. It takes a lot more for my cunt to flood with wet heat, and even when you do everything “right” it’s still not a guarantee.
For me, the “dripping down the inner thigh” proof of excitement that features in a lot of erotica is no longer a thing. I want to be soaking wet and slippery under his touch. Of course I do, but right now, that’s not my reality.
We use lube nearly every time we fuck. Sometimes because it’s a quickie, but most often because it’s the only way sex is going to happen at all.
To be honest, I get fucking tired of needing lube. I want to be wet and ready for him like the early days. I’m ready to flood the bed and squirt and gush through orgasms so that when he fucks me, it’s like going down a slip-and-slide.
Having to say, “I need lube” in the middle of sex feels like admitting a flaw. (Even though I know it’s not a flaw at all.)
Of course we used lube anyway…
Before his dick could catch on fire, he pulled out, applied the creamy goodness that is our favorite lube, and sunk his cock back in. We both sighed with relief.
I knew I’d been rubbed raw at my own stubborness. Using the bathroom later was proof. Ouch!
He was nonchalant, matter-of-fact about the whole thing. Sex didn’t feel good anymore and lube is the tool that fixes that.
That’s what frustrates me the most. I know that lube is a tool to enhance pleasure. It’s neither good nor bad. It just is. And good lube is a miracle worker. It makes penetrative sex possible. Hell, the kind we use makes our skin softer (how’s that for multi-tasking?).
I’m not sure I can ever love him more than I already do. But it’s in those moments, when I’m not advocating for myself and he takes care of me, that I feel it the most.
He didn’t treat it like a big deal because needing lube isn’t a big deal. If I ever forget that again, maybe I’ll just remember what not using lube feels like.
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