Ambivalent Sex

He’s on his knees between my thighs, fumblingly overeager, desperately enthusiastic. He’s wired on the buzz of morning hard-on hormones, and his glazed-eye expression communicates the same message as his stuttered explanatory request:

Please is the ask.

I’m going to combust from unsated lust is his reasoning.

My answer?

…Meh.

Everything about my bearing is ambivalent. My limbs, relaxed and flop-heavy, make for dead-weight obstruction to his goal as he tries to manipulate them into a wider V; my breathing, steady and slow, is a dull velvet foil to his diamond-shine quickened excitement; the expression on my face is one of neutral un-interest.

And every moment that ticks by — every moment that he’s exceedingly desperate and I’m anything but — ramps up his excitement, until his cock flushes hot and the veined ridges purple along its turgid length.

He wants –

– craves, desires, needs –

– to fuck me.

.

.

.

And I couldn’t care less.

This is a game we play.

In the coin-flip of exertive eroticism, ‘heads’ is a struggle-fuck, an all-in wrestle of muscle and power, a playful exercise of aroused strength.

Ambivalent sex is the ‘tails’ side of that coin, an ‘I’m not going to lift a finger’ Yeah, so…? response to his frantic needtofuck lustful exigency.

Just as my active refusal to accommodate his desire to fuck me is a turn-on for him, so too is my unimpressed “meh” non-refusal. Both tap into his “I want __________, but she’s not on the same page” psychosexual response mechanism. It’s like manipulating the volume button on his DesperateToFuck stereo to speaker-shaking intensity, and cranking the bass to 10. It’s a noise he can’t ignore, and a driving beat to which he’s unable to dance.

Sometimes just ratcheting up the ReallyWantSex sound system is enough. I leave him to tune in to his lust-vibes and go on about my day, knowing he’ll be both hyper-focused and distracted all the while.

Other times I take my ambivalence a step further and offer my body up with slack-limbed disinterest, lying unengaged and unresponsive beneath him: not exactly starfishing (because starfishing requires interest but demonstrates laziness — the presentation looks similar; the attitude is not), but not actively participating either.

Up to a certain point, anyway…

Sometimes, I let him get to a certain point, post-penetration, then smile and sternly tell him to stop. To withdraw. To not finish – not now, not later, never without permission – and to let me up. It’s a form of denial, an in-my-favor delay, and I know that having my cunt-scent soaked onto his cock will work together with the tactile memories he’ll experience throughout the day to make for a desperate-to-please-me lover by the time end-of-day rolls around.

Other times, however, I maintain my ambivalence but decide to engage with my own pleasure. “Hand me my vibrator,” I’ll say with a put-upon sigh. “I guess I might as well have an orgasm.”

_Just_ as he’s getting close to the edge of his own.

And then I proceed to buzz my clit, ‘accidentally’ slipping it underneath the hood to catch on the head of his cock as he pumps ever more slowly in and out of my body, watching him flex and shake with the concentrated effort it takes to hold back. I’ll clamp my vaginal walls against his invasion, making it more difficult for him to push through the tightness stroke by stroke. I’ll raise my hips and hug his with my knees, holding him in place while I grind and flutter, clenching and releasing while forcing him into stillness. Or I’ll push at his torso — “Get off me, you’re heavy!” — while manipulating my hips closer to his, making my ‘I’d be more interested if you were more interesting’ just-get-on-with-it apathy apparent.

Am I truly apathetic? Do I really find intercourse to be so tedious?

No. Of course not.

While my true levels of sexual interest definitely vary, this kind of ambivalent sex is not indicative of dullness or insipidity. When I truly do not want sex, I say so (and explain, if necessary) and that’s the end of it. But *this* kind of apathetic sex, just like its struggle-fuck opposite, is a game we play.

And these kinds of games, I always – always – win.

😉