Love, sex and interminable pop-culture references

Back in the game.

I haven’t had sex in years, and in that time, I’ve begun to wonder if I have, to any extent, lost my touch.

I need to contextualise a bit. I don’t think much of myself; I have been told by various people that I have an assortment of talents, but by others that I am completely talentless. My natural state is to consider myself the latter, although empirical evidence suggests otherwise. I am, by nature, self-critical – a lot of bloggers on this here side of the web are – and it takes an especially good day to convince me that any fortuitous circumstance coming my way is down to anything but sheer dumb luck.

The same can’t be said for sex, because for a long time I was certain that I was good at that.

I don’t have a lot of pride, but I do take pride in the fact that I am a very attentive lover. I try – and I can but try, even if I’m not always successful – to attune myself to my sexual partners’ needs and turn-ons, doing the things they like and hopefully finding something mutually beneficial for us. If not, but if she enjoys it, then that matters a huge deal for me.

Even without that concept, I have been told by all eight sexual partners that I am good at what I do. The five out of the eight who have had sex beforehand have all responded favourably, and out of those five, three of them told me that I was the best. One of those liked to scream it at me while I was railing her against my bedpost in my old house.

Going for years with nothing but my hand for company has left me wondering if, should the opportunity present itself, I would suffer performance anxiety during sex (or iron fist, which has been a problem for me before), and that I would cease to be the best, or even particularly adequate. As oral sex is bae, this was my main worry: that my lack of experience, rapidly disappearing energy or the disability that I’ve been diagnosed with (or all three) would impact negatively with my abilities on my knees and between her thighs.

My sex princess would tell you the opposite, and here’s why.

There isn’t a lot of nudity in our house, and that which there is is mostly from me. My sex princess is hardly ever naked – ironically, given their former blogging moniker – and, when they are, it is a sign that they are horny. The fact that they walked into the bedroom on Sunday night completely naked was just such a sign, and their delightfully vague insinuation that we should do “sexy stuff” was enough to make me intrigued.

Would this entail touching them with my fingers until they are worked up enough to finish themselves off?
Would this mean that I wield a Doxy and stimulate their clit with it until they finish?
Would this mean that I masturbate in front of them while they watch and admire?

None of this, they attested. They wanted to be licked.

I will now repeat the fact that I was incredibly nervous about this, but once my head was in position between their beautiful thighs (my knees comforted by a duvet that had fallen from the bed during our cavorting), it seemed to matter very little. In so many ways, it was almost as if we had never left off with the sex – their scent, their shape and their taste were all as familiar as they could be – comforting and dependable.

Her pussy lips flushed as I tapped my way along their slit, like they always used to. As I circled their clit with my tongue’s very tip, they moaned and arched (as they do) while the clit itself stiffened and buzzed, its pulse reverberating through my nose as I slid my tongue further south. I’d forgotten how good that felt. They gasped, moaned and grew rapidly more slick with lust as I began to flick my tongue back and forth across their gorgeous, soaking wet vulva, controlling my breathing as best I could, truly savouring the moment.

“Fuck, that’s so good,” said their voice from somewhere in the ether. “Keep doing that.”

It’s a common misconception that “keep doing that” means “do something else”. I, however, didn’t do something else, and carried on lapping my tongue in tight circles across their clitoral hood.

And, as it turns out, that was the right decision, and one that made me feel like, once again, I am indeed skilled. Or, at least, I am at oral sex.

Once they had finished screaming, I went through to the lounge, licked my lips, took a long draught of Sprite Zero…

…and then, with a silly grin on my face, I set up a COVID lateral flow test, which I took as my entire mouth still brimmed with the taste of girlcum.

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