A Matter Of Taste

There are some things in life that are just things.  Taken alone, they are neither good things nor bad things.  They are just things.

They can be pragmatic things or provocative things, upliftingly luxurious things or depressingly dull things, steamy and sumptuous things or unctuously unappealing things.  Sometimes they can be all those things, other times none, depending on your taste.

For me, crawling is one of those things.

Like coffee, if it’s done right, crawling can be a delectable treat.  (And by ‘done right’ I mean ‘done in a way that I like’.  I am not insinuating that there is a ‘right’ way to do coffee OR crawling, NOR am I implying that ‘my way’ is the ‘right’ way.  To each their own.)  If it’s the wrong brew, however, it leaves behind a bitter aftertaste.

Some types of crawling make me furrow my brow in bafflement.  My reaction is the same as it is when being invited to pay seven dollars for a burnt-bean latte:  It holds zero appeal for me, and no way in hell am I gonna do it.  For me, this pretty much applies to *any* kind of degradation/humiliation play.  In general, it’s just not my thing.  But crawling in particular – if it’s being forced, if it’s a punishment, if it’s for the purpose of humiliation – goes beyond just “not turning me on.”  It actively turns me off.

Humiliative Crawling (I totally just made up that term, but it works!), especially if it’s a woman who’s doing the crawling and she’s doing it at the behest of a man…  Nope.  Definitely not to my taste.

Crawling as an activity related to puppy play?  Meh.

As any kind of ‘lowering’ protocol in BDSM activities?  Ehhh…  (Insert splayed palms, upturned eyebrows and shrugging shoulders, here.)

Other types of crawling, however, affect my insides in ways that range from lukewarm to steamy hot.  It’s all about the who, the how, and the why.

When my husband is on all fours because he’s cleaning the floors or clearing the weed beds (they’re actually flower beds, they just don’t have any flowers in them at the moment – thus, ‘weed beds’), I find that sexy.  In an “Awww…  Isn’t my Chore Whore adorable?” kind of way.  The way his worn-out jeans hug his butt, the way his shoulders and upper arms flex when he bends his elbows to scrub or pull, the little noises he makes when he’s exerting effort, the way he mutters to himself about what needs to be done/changed/improved…  Those things all combined give me a happy hum in my belly, because ultimately, he’s on his hands and knees for me.  For the purpose of helping me.  To do, for me, the things – the necessary things – that I don’t like to do.  To make my life easier.

That kind of crawling is sexy.

I also find it sexy when he crawls in other ways.  Specifically, when he crawls to me.

He will often sprawl out on the living room floor with his laptop open, surrounded by books (and notes and snacks and other assorted study essentials), to do his homework while I sit in a chair and read.  Periodically he will take a break from his pencil-scrawling and key-clacking to crawl, on hands and knees, over to where I’m sitting.  Sometimes it’s to nuzzle me, or to ask me to bend down for a kiss.  Other times it’s to tickle the back of my knee or kiss my bare toes.  Occasionally it’s to pet the cat, who generally takes up residence in my lap.  Or to remove the cat from the tops of my thighs so he can bury his face between them.

Silly, sweet, sensual…  His reasons for crawling to me may vary, but my internal reaction is always the same:  I feel a happy, warm glow.

And when we’re in bed together (or on a blanket in the great outdoors, or utilizing any other surface that can be comfortably used for carnal activity), there are many different kinds of crawling:

• For him it’s the bent-knee scooch to get himself into place to properly use his pleasure tools, the slow backwards retreat to shoulder between my thighs, the long stretching slide up my body to fuck into me;
• For me, it’s the sultry stalk of willing prey, the wide-straddle knee walk across his hips to seat myself on his cock, the clambering of my limbs over his for kisses on (both of) my lips.

Mmmmm…

Yes, I definitely think crawling is like coffee.

By itself, it’s just a thing.  It can be bitter or jolting. It can be something of which one is neutrally aware but does not wish to partake.  Or it can be seductively smooth, rich with flavor, and inviting to the senses.

It’s all a matter of taste.

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