This is about the genesis of both fever and dislike, this is stroke my fancy, tickle my delight, and watch me move my pelvis or subtle touch, in a manner that will undeniably rock a clitoris world; as he sweats and swats, irrepressibly, even though the bitch in him wants to acknowledge the double stiches, and the price of a gym membership clearly isn’t doing what out-and-out application said it would do.
Bad sex - this is a universal frustration that only that which is taboo can present, and the sexual congress is a deeply human affair, thus the premise is set: you have the mismatch between the current environment- capitals, system of government, social disparity and social media, and the environment of evolutionary adaptation- tribal life on the open plains of Africa- and because sex is a physical act that provides a direct connection to the divine, something Porn sites all over the world have been able to tap into, the premise is get home, on somebody else’s bed, sofa or back seat contemplating psychological shortcomings and upbringings, and have better than mediocre sex with whom affection is madly, and barely attracted to, to take the edge off the day, to relieve the pressure of living, to reaffirm love’s divine, something which all the “fuck me boots” in the world conspire to do.
.....that slow grind that meaningful prose, that nothing is as determined as this......
Either way being the prelude to acknowledging it’s a different stroke, for different folk world, admittedly, caught-up in acting the role of the Mandingo warrior; the Barry White disciple, completely inhabiting my body and the moment; out of my head and into my bliss, he who is playful, passionate and maintains good eye contact and can’t let go, it hasn’t escaped my appetite that the sexual energy goes far beyond the physical sensations of sex, hence the bad sex, not the boots, not the slip and slide oils or the girth titillating the sexual response cycle, but all the assistance's that fail to live up to a natural naked connect.
Clearly the good sex-bad sex lottery has created nympho-maniac, and sapiosexual individuals simulating the interpretations of emotive resonances, in a universally accepted non-emotive world, using sex as a conscious signifier determining significance, understanding and purpose in life, a real psychological mind-fuck waged psychologist continue to pay their mortgages with.
And whereas dictations call it the absence of Tantric, spiritual sex, and it’s about tenderness; the mark of Eros if your sexual sympathetic stands by that line of solemn rational, all of which is too complicated, arduous and meaningful for a station-to-station Blog Post, inadvertently it’s become a sense of entitlement; to have a connect, that slow grind that meaningful prose, that nothing is as determined as this, partly because I work hard, love my child, believe in God and courageously admitted to urinating in the shower, but namely it remains one of the last natural human states of intimate, under attack, underappreciated and illogically appropriated, in the spirit of reciprocate touch, dropping the mike happened there.