Sex is not a goddamn performance.

Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.

It should not require confidence.

Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.

Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening clitoris, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.

You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.

It’s not about being “good in bed.”

It’s about being happy.

One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.

What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you.

Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.

Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be.

I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.

I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want.

It’s originality.

It’s passion.

It’s joy.

Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.

I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you giggle when I suck your nipple, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet tongue on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.

“Good in bed,” what.

You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.

Shove your technique. I’ll show you mine. Fucking scream. Let go. Let your memory swallow it. I’ll fuck you to make you feel.

This isn’t a test.


(via psychologicallyderanged)
The other day, someone asked me how old I was when I moved out of my parents house and I told them I was fourteen and they looked at me like I was crazy. When you’re fourteen you still need your mom to listen to you cry after you kiss a boy and he goes behind your back and kisses your best friend three nights later and you still need your dad to pick you up from school and give you money that you’re probably going to lose. But when I was fourteen I stopped talking to the girl I had been friends with since second grade. I never went downstairs when my mom called for dinner. I would lay on the floor for hours trying to feel something. I kissed four boys in one night because I wanted to know what love felt like but apparently it just felt like slimy tongues and sweaty hands grabbing at you. I handed in six homework assignments that year and my teachers called my parents in for a meeting but no one could get me to get the fuck out of bed and focus. I spent a few months tearing into my veins until I went too deep one night and found myself covered in blood and something else, probably the last bit of happiness I had left. When I was fourteen I think I disappeared. I lost myself one night trying to sneak out the window to buy drugs from the boy next door and I never really came home. I was fourteen when I moved out.
(via dysmorphic-perspective)

(Source: extrasad)