His cock is in my throat. I've slid underneath him so that he's straddling my face. I'm looking up at him, his sleek, flat stomach, his heavy eyes. He is panting. I focus on wrapping my throat around him like a hand or a pussy, feeling all the angles of my mouth massaging him. I experiment until I relax into a position I can hold for a long time. That's when I realize that one of my favorite things about any sexual encounter is the plateau. The zone.
Orgasms, while they can be powerful, are for amateurs. Anyone too intensely focused on their orgasm or too vulnerable to having one feels like an unworthy opponent. I've discarded lovers ruthlessly if I've ever ended up with one who didn't value extended pleasure.
David Deida has a theory that women need to be fucked for at least 45 minutes before they'll even have a decent cervical orgasm. (He divides female orgasms into three types: the clitoral, g-spot and cervical, and ranks them in the same order for level of profundity. Deida is the one person I've come across who does this and I agree with his assessment. More on this in another post.)
The only men I've ever taken seriously are those who can control their orgasms and who value fucking for a very long time. When I find a man who keeps me up all or most of the night, I hold on to him. He clearly values sex as much as I do and has put in the time to become an excellent lover.
On another level, I draw a correlation between his sexual fortitude and his intestinal one. Flimsy fuckers are flimsy men and vice versa. I've never met a fearless fucker who also wasn't a fearless man.
The only thing that can assuage my disappointment at a man's orgasm is his ever-ready cock responding again in a few minutes. Then all is right in the world again.
Labels: marathon fuckers