Observing Sex

She lays on her back, nestled deeply in the ruffled sheets and blankets.

She feels especially warm and safely cocooned.

Her bedroom is small. Her window is small.

And that is good because her walls are all but covered in quality reproductions of 18th century Chinese art. Bright reds and yellows gives her room an energy she thrives on.

The man she's with is younger than her. He manages a restaurant where she dinned often while working late. The dated fourteen months and have been married for ten months.

She looks up into his face. His eyes are closed. He has worked himself into a sweat. His breathing is rapid, but he's not winded. His orgasm was long and intense and loud. She enjoys the experience of him throwing himself at her sexually.

There aren't many times where she is the giver, but that is not because of her choice. His choice is to be assertive. And she lets him.

She didn't have an orgasm. She often doesn't. His intensity is often too quick and too unsentimental. It's all physical and it's all him. But most of the time she is okay with that because the physical is memorably intense.

Part of it is the age difference. Part of it is her personality. Fifteen years is a big gap. And her personality leans heavily on observation.

Her walls, her 18th century Chinese reproductions, are all gifts to her. She "earned" them because she adored them. Five days a week for some seven years she ate her lunch at renowned art gallery. Five nights a week she read about the art she had fallen in love with.

One day a curator at the museum complimented her about her regular presence in the gallery. In short time he realized she knew more than he did. For the past ten years she has volunteered part of each weekend at the gallery giving tours of Chinese art.

She learned by observing.

She is an observer during sex too. It's oddly her favorite part of sex.

She's had a brief affair already in her short marriage because she met a man she wanted to observe during sex. She invited him back six times in three weeks because of how he verbalized things during sex.

In her engagement she met a man and slept with him because he had no arms. She found him warm and kind and soft-spoken. She wanted to observe an armless man in bed.

She slept with one of her college professors because he carried himself with such humble confidence. She slept with another because he was overweight.

On this day she lays snuggly on her back watching him breathe, watching his closed eyes. She knows in short time he'll pull out of her. She'll watch that too. She knows men are not all alike. For some the pull is utilitarian. And for others it is very much of part of sex, that sweet final slide within the vagina.

She'll watch to see when his eyes open where they go. Most often they go to her breasts. Sometimes her eyes. And sometimes her mouth. If her breasts, he'll kiss each one softly. If her eyes, he'll smile and say thank you and other kind words. If her mouth, he'll kiss her long and soft with a closed mouth and sweaty lips.

His breathing slows and his eyes open. They go to her breasts. The kisses comes. Her nipples become aroused and firm and expectant. She knows if she does nothing he'll eventually roll off of her. She also knows if she touches one or both of her breasts, he'll remain on her and kiss and fondle them.

She touches them.

She runs her hands up and down his back, pushing her fingernails softly into him. She knows this re-stirs his libido. She knows the longer her strokes the more he becomes aroused. And she knows if she touches his ass, she'll put him back into fifth gear.

She slides her little finger the down and back up his butt crack. He raises his ass and she put the tip of her finger inside him. She feels his body tense again. His engine is starting to purr.

He slides down from her breasts and all but throws his mouth into and all around her vagina.

She's seen him and felt him do this hundreds of times. She can feel his tongue probing and licking. She knows if she raises her hips he'll push harder into her.

She does.

She is still far from an orgasm because he is all man and all muscle and all vigor. And she doesn't have a single complaint.

She likes to watch her husband ravish her body.

She watches his head between her legs. She listens closely for that sweet sound. She pays attention to the sensation of his tongue. She fills his razor stubble on her thighs.

When she lowers her hips she knows he'll resurface in a few minutes. He'll smile. His face will covered with a grin and goo. She likes the look.

Many years ago she asked her family doctor about the differences in men's penis'. He gave her a formal, reserved look. She went on to describe, in detail, some five differences she's noticed.

His expression changed. Ten minutes later she observed his.

Eventually her husband rolls off her and wipes off his face with the sheet. She glances at his penis and it didn't remind her of the doctors, but of a boyfriend in art school.

She lays there naked as he eventually climbs off the bed and searches for the clothes he tossed aside. She watches him, and his enviable typical male naked ease. She's not that aware of her own nakedness because her mind is so locked into observing him pull on his ratty shirt.

Some ten minutes later he walks back into their bedroom and asks if she's getting up. She's been laying there with her hands behind her head replaying in her mind every movement, every noise, every word, every sensation of just having had good sex.

She answers in the affirmative and rolls and sits on the side of the bed. She realizes how aroused she has become in rethinking everything. She finds him in living room and throws her naked body at him, lunging with her hands for his zipper.