*Alright — I’ve posted before, but I’m a little nervous! This is an excerpt from a newsletter I’m writing about a one-year sex life makeover I’ve undertaken (https://www.reddit.com/r/DeadBedrooms/comments/yxzjfs/slm_quick_update/) and it’s my first time sharing, like, sex writing (rather than writing *about* sex) with others. Hope you enjoy.*
***
It started with a joke: *What if we booked a night at Sybaris?*
As I mentioned in a past issue of this newsletter, Sybaris is a line of adults-only resorts dotting the Midwest; initially, I had pulled up the website last week to make a gentle crack about the suspect sexiness — and maybe slight sleaziness — of the rooms, which feature in-ground pools, a fireplace, a sex swing and adult entertainment on the televisions.
“A romantic paradise to ignite feelings, rekindle the romance and enjoy quality time together,” the web copy reads. “Our whirlpool and swimming pool suites are a delight to the senses, providing every amenity possible. It is the ultimate romantic experience.”
But here’s the thing — while it may not be the ideal bedroom I want to go home to every night, since clicking on the website, ads for a discounted one-night stay began stalking me online. At this point, I was still in My Old Hometown while S was at home, so I sent him the aforementioned joke via text.
*What if?*
I didn’t expect much of a response (to paraphrase comedian John Mulaney, an acknowledgment is all it deserved), but to my surprise, he responded: “I mean, if you want to, I’m game!” I can’t explain it, but his willingness to get a little dirty in what is definitely marketed as a Fuck Hotel was an incredible turn-on.
My phone dings again: “I will say, though, a little disappointed. When I first scanned your text, I thought you wanted me to buy you a Sybian.” For the uninitiated, a Sybian is essentially a masturbation saddle, complete with a mechanical dildo that can be controlled by you or a partner. “I would watch you fuck yourself stupid with one of these,” he wrote.
“Show me,” I sent back with a wink.
Within minutes, we were sending each other videos of people having enthusiastic, playful sex: at Fuck Hotels, on Fuck Machines, in Fuck Swings. *This is what I want to do to you. Will you take me like that? I want to do you like that all night long.*
“God, I miss you,” I texted him. “I can’t wait to get home to have my way with you.”
As soon as I hit send, I realized something: S and I, we live together and we often work together. In our case, I don’t think the adage “familiarity breeds contempt” is accurate at all, however, I do think it can breed a little boredom, especially when it comes to the bedroom. We hadn’t had much distance amid the pandemic — classes I was taking were canceled, social events got bumped, work travel was put on hold, our respective friends were in lockdown —and while that was lovely in some ways, what I realized was that the new reality didn’t hold much room for suspense.
With the changing reality, there was less and less, “After work, I can’t wait for you to walk in that door…” Unless the door we are talking about is the one leading from out of his home office into my home office (well, my spot on the sofa where I curl up with my laptop). I’d forgotten how absolutely intoxicating the build up can be.
We sext and masturbate — together, but apart — until 2 a.m. Finally, I have to tap out. I have my flight home at just after 5 a.m., so I need to be up by 3 a.m. When my alarm blares, I would’ve thought I would be a little annoyed at how little sleep I got, but my body is ready to make good on the promises I made S last night. An Uber ride, a flight and another Uber ride later, I’m back at my apartment building.
S greets me at the gate with a kiss and I find myself melting into his embrace. It was a long week (and a tough week, if I’m being honest) and I am just so relieved to be heading up to my warm, sun-dappled apartment and, hopefully, a hot cup of coffee. But as soon as we hit the elevator, closing the wrought iron cage door behind us, S playfully unbuttons the first few buttons of my white blouse so that he can slip his hand over my breast, his thumb circling and pressing my nipple.
The benefits of living in a 1920s building? Slow elevators with no security cameras.
As I mentioned, I am running on one hour of sleep, so when S initially calls me back to the bedroom, he tells me that he wants me to get some good rest. But, of course, the suspense has been building for so long, it’s like there is electricity crackling between our bodies as we lie side-by-side. I know that I want to fuck, but I tell S I need two things first: a quick rinse and a glass of orange juice because my blood sugar was wonky after the early morning flight and too much coffee.
He tells me to get naked and get my shower going; he follows along just a minute after with a cold glass of juice. “Drink,” he says, pushing it into my hand. The steam builds behind the curtain and as condensation builds on both the mirror and glass, I drink deeply, savoring the sweet citrus. S bends down slightly and takes my left breast in his mouth, slowly sucking towards my nipple, then giving it a quick bite.
“Go ahead,” he says, gesturing to the shower. I hand him the half-emptied glass of juice, which he places on the counter then lets his hand rest on the bulge in his jeans. “I’ll just stay here for a minute.”
As I step under the water, I hear the unzipping of his jeans.
A few seconds later, S pulls the curtain back. As I bathe, he strokes his cock.
When I step back out onto the bathmat, S towel dries my body, eventually cupping my pussy in his hand as he lets the towel fall to the floor. “Let’s go back to bed,” he suggests — and we do. An hour passes in what feels like minutes as we become a tangle of limbs, spit, sweat and several shuddering orgasms. I send a Slack message calling out of my first meeting of the day while S’ cock is in my mouth. When he eventually pulls my pussy towards his mouth, I call out of my second meeting.
At some point, I realize I need to do *some* work for the day, so while S takes a brief nap, I make a cup of coffee and wrap up in his flannel shirt, letting the unbuttoned fabric brush against my nipples. I can’t believe I’m still so turned on. I manage to finish editing a few recipes and then go to lie naked in bed.
We nap on and off over the course of the afternoon. Around 3 p.m. I wake up to his mouth on mine. I draw his hand into my pussy. “How are you already this wet?” he growls in my ear.
Literally hours later, I slide into a hot bubble bath with a joint and delivery pho on its way. The bedroom is a mess, littered with garments, wet wipes, an errant slick of lube on the rug and toys we hadn’t used in months. S had already made me promise we would pick back up again tomorrow “once I had recovered.”
Is this the power of suspense? Unlike the rest of this sex life makeover, which is easily inputted into a spreadsheet, suspense isn’t exactly quantifiable. However, I wonder if there are ways to imbue our day-to-day relationship with it? I vow to think about it — once I have recovered.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/z99wel/nonfiction_sybians_sex_swings_and_no_security