If you wanna be my lover, you gotta go down on me...

Didn’t your mom ever tell you no dessert before dinner? Go back and eat your vegetables!

My hands, they were tingling. Not like the tiny needles that shoot through them when they wake up from a good sleep, but tingling all over, like tiny warning bells that at any moment, they would go numb. My breath was shallow, my heart racing like it needed to beat a record. My body, my entire body, was sweaty and pulsing, and a heat, a fire was spreading through it like conflagration in a dry wood.

My mind was absent – lost somewhere abstract, a blank place where thoughts ceased to exist. All there was, all there had ever been, it seemed, was sensation.

I forced myself back to consciousness, back to my room – lit only by the glint of streetlight that peaked through the ruffled curtains over my window.

“This is medically unsound,” I thought, as I gently moved my fingers and toes, confirming I did, in fact, still have feeling in them.

Then another wave of sensation ran through me, and I succumbed again to the blank space where all that existed was pleasure.

The Real T and I had vacillated between emailing and texting in the days after our date at El Centro. I had a vague notion that he seemed disappointed I hadn’t invited him inside. I also had the vague notion that this thing between us may not be an epic, made-for-movies love affair. I didn’t mind. It was what it was, and as our email thread filled with youtube videos and laughter, and our flirtation directly correlated with number of spirits ingested, I leaned back into it, relaxed into it, and enjoyed it.

“What are you doing?” he drunk texted me one night. “I want to see you.” 

“I’m already in bed…naked. Sorry. ” 

“That’s just a tease! I’m not that far away. Sounds like I should join you.”

“Only if you bring cheesecake.”

“Cheesecake? I can bring cheesecake.”

I fell asleep laughing, and awoke to his early morning text. “I tried to seduce you with cheesecake delivery. I’m so sorry.”

On Friday, when my solocation to Florida was canceled because of the weather, I found myself less than broken-hearted. We met around 10:30 and made our way to one of Red Palace’s cozy booths. We chatted casually about simple subjects. As our hands increasingly brushed and our eyes locked for increasing amounts of time, it became evident we were more interested in our chemistry than the alchemy of our cocktails.

We walked out of the bar and into my bedroom, his hand in mine. We sat on my bed.

“So, your house is cool.”

“Yeah…”

And before I could finish the thought, we went at each other with all the force of a head on collision. As our noses bumped and teeth clanked together, we fell apart laughing. He kissed me again, and that time, we got it right.

For the first several minutes, we kissed without a sound between us. That makes me uncomfortable. I like natural banter, I like laughter during sex. Silent sex is creepy, unless your fears of intimacy aren’t nearly as profound as mine. But whatever.

Finally, he broke it and said something silly, something I can’t remember, and I burst into laughter. And that was it, all the ice that needed to be broken. Our clothes came off as easily and quickly as the quips did off our tongues. We teased and played, verbally and physically. And then he got down to business.

Rather, went down on my business.

I’m not shy about my love of oral sex. I’m even less shy about my requirement that men I date be willing and eager to make sure sex isn’t just about them. The Real T took all my expectations, hopes and dreams for man-given-orgasms and raised the bar so high I might as well invest in a better vibrator and be damn happy with it, because ain’t no man ever gonna attain the standard he set.

Which brings me back to that sensation coma – that debilitating state of utter, overpowering pleasure.

“What do you like?” he asked with a mischievous smile, on his way up for air.

“That,” I nodded frantically. “That, a lot that.”

“Good, because I like doing it,” he grinned. “What else do you like?”

With my brain out of commission, I couldn’t force composure, and I blushed.

“Sounds like I’ll have to explore until I figure it out,” he said, and I died.

Because clearly this was a dream, a fantastical dream. This man and I had been fooling around for two hours, still hadn’t had intercourse and though I was already in some sort of primal, subconscious state of pure, unadulterated pleasure, he was still focused on me.

Eventually, when I regained motor control, I asked him the same, went on an expedition of my own and experienced a whole new level of pleasure listening to his body language for my answers.

It was nearly 4:00am by the time we had intercourse. Three hours of foreplay and several orgasms, it turns out, leads to damn good sex. We fell asleep at 5:00, exhausted and bodies entangled, woke up before 8:00 with our lips already on each other’s and put on an Oscar worthy encore performance.

By the time he stumbled out of my house, both of us exhausted and deliriously happy, I didn’t attempt to process what had happened or what would happen next. I lay in bed curled on my side, smelled him on my pillow, and immediately the sensations of the last 12 hours washed over me all over again.

I woke up at 2:00 that afternoon ready for more…