Good sex is when you feel yourselves joining as one soul. When you care as much or more about the other person's pleasure as your own. When you feel a powerful feeling of love and respect for the man wash over you, along with the orgasm that washes over you. When you know each other's bodies, each other's hot spots, so well that you just KNOW when, how, and where to touch, without guidance. When you are BOTH enjoying the foreplay so much that you put off moving to the "main event" for as long as you can, and then delay it even LONGER. When afterward, all that you BOTH want to do is lie in each other's loving arms forever.
When he doesn't pull out right away, and you feel him pulsing and throbbing even AFTER your mutual orgasms, the throbbing that tells you he is still excited to be with you and still deeply in love with you even after nearly 5 years of our relationship, and that is why he is taking a long time to calm down and regain his composure. When contentment washes over your soul, and you rest peacefully together, and then after you've both calmed down and regained normal breathing, you start in on a second round. When sex is the first thing you do in the morning and the last thing at night--and something you WANT to do all the time.
When you can't imagine spending the rest of your life without him, and without having frequent and glorious sex with him. When you go the whole day at work feeling his come inside you, and you ache to hold him again, you can't wait to show him how much you love him and lust for him and think he is the sexiest guy in the world, and you can't wait to get back home and be in his arms again, you can't wait to feel him slowly slipping into you again.
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On the trolley last Friday evening, a youngish (maybe 25-30?) woman was sitting on the sideways seat they have near all of the doors. She was tall, a little overweight but still attractive. She wore a striped blue top that unzips down the front, and it was open to her bare navel. Underneath was a matching tube top that did nothing to hide her generous endowment (made my 38Cs look tiny). You could even see a bit of her huge areolas peeking out over the top.
There were lots of empty seats on the trolley, but for some STRANGE reason, three youngish men (about her age) were seated in the sideways seat directly opposite from her, pretending to be reading, but looking up at her frequently. For her part, she had a shopping bag at her feet, and from time to time she leaned down and rummaged through it as if looking for something, giving the men a good view of her ample cleavage each time. She would look at their crotches, lick her lips, and flash them a fast smile that she probably thought nobody else saw. None of them spoke, but there was ceratinly lots of communication via eye contact and body language. I was seated close enough to observe all these goings-on.
I understand the motivation of the guys, since most men are pure preverts. The woman got some ego-stroking, I'm sure, but I would be afraid to get THAT kind of attention, you don't know what one of these guys might do to her when she got off the train in the dark.
Then it occurred to me, maybe the four know each other and this was a flirting game among acquaintances. Maybe they like putting-on a show for strangers on the trolley.
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I saw ONE man's shoe on the highway, and a mile or two further on, a woman's shoe. I pictured a happy young couple in the first heady bloom of new love and lust, driving down the freeway in a sporty convertible with the top down. She watches him drive, a feeling of genuine love washes over her, and suddenly she can't resist unbuckling his belt and lying face-down into his trousers as she strips him. He excitedly kicks his left leg skyward, and one shoe goes flying out the driver's side window (he forgot to tie it). She sits up, smiling contentedly, an off-white goo trickling down her chin.
Now it's his turn. He lifts her micro-miniskirt, delighted that she neglected to wear panties underneath. They pull off to the shoulder, quickly change places, and speed off down the highway again. She is driving now, so his hands and attention are free to be devoted 100% to her pleasure. His tongue circles and swirls, her hips buck upward, she arches her back and presses hard into his loving, attentive face. He raises her smooth, bare left leg straight up in the air and holds it there, her calf cupped in his palm. He parts her thighs to give himself more maneuvering room, as he kisses, licks, and nibbles, and in her excitement, her right leg presses down even harder into the gas pedal. She lets her left leg stretch out the driver's-side window, to spread her thighs even wider to his kissing lips and licking tongue.
With her leg sticking ever further out the window and her thighs spreading ever wider, they tool down the highway at 70...80...90, her foot pressing harder into the pedal as she grows ever wetter. At that speed, the wind tears her left shoe right off of her pretty, delicate little foot, exposing her bright-red pedicured toenails to the rush of air streaming by, cooling off her foot as the rest of her grows ever hotter.
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Whichever of us is less drained afterward, gets up and gets two warm, wet washcloths and two large bath towels, and then we each lovingly wash off the other's genitals (whatever our tongues haven't already cleaned-up), and we both lie on enormous towels. We could have a washcloth and towel ready ahead of time, but then the washcloth wouldn't be warm any more by the time we finish. And getting up to get a washcloth and towel for the other, and cleaning the other off, is such a loving gesture, we wouldn't want to lose that. We don't keep count, but I think we are about even, him getting me a towel or me getting him one, afterward. If I have sucked him off before the sex, he is usually too drained to get up, and I know it will be me who gets the towel. Likewise, if he thoroughly eats me out before we fuck, he generally gets up and gets me a towel while I lay naked, breathing heavily, spent and content, unable to move.
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We have a book called 1001 Ways to Be Romantic. This book says romance isn't a single act of a moment, but a daily lifestyle choice that BOTH partners make. Caring enough about a person to do something nice for him/her without expecting anything in return, and even if the nice thing isn't even noticed at first. It doesn't have to be flowers or a romantic dinner, it can be apologizing when you were wrong, or forgiving your partner rather than staying angry. Romance can be doing the mundane chores together: house cleaning, dishes, laundry. Making soup for your partner who has a cold. Throwing your arms around him/her, happy to see he/she made it home safely from work. Buying a gift when it ISN't a birthday or holiday, just because. The nice thing about LIVING a life of romance is, even though you do this out of love, and you don't do it with the expectation of getting anything in return, it pays HUGE dividends back to you anyway, in SO many big and small ways. It is the "living happily ever after" of fairy tales, translated into daily existence.
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