There is a certain delight I take in using a man for my pleasure. It’s something I’ve used only a choice few males for in my sexual explorations thus far in life though, because (1) for me to let go enough to be in the appropriate headspace to use him requires a formula of consent, shared kink, mutual trust, timing, and desire that is more art than science; and (2) for him to want to be used as a toy – a living, breathing, fucking thing – requires {a} a deep-seated desire to focus purely on my pleasure, not at the expense of his own but rather to the enhancement thereof, and {b} the dedication to follow through on that desire.
To be clear, I have never had a lover who was NOT focused on pleasing me. (I get that my experience is somewhat outside the norm in that way.) But there is an Indefineable Something that, when the chemistry clicks, acts as a catalyst, changing the sexual dyamic temporarily from “He and Me” to “Me and my Fuck Toy.”
Sometimes it is a word or phrase, a term of endearment or honorific that indicates submission, or a slutty begging request that tells me he wants to be used. Sometimes it is a *click* of mutually changing headspace: that look in his eyes that goes slightly dazed when he’s drunk on endorphins or high on submission, that says “keep going keep going don’t stop” while simultaneously I feel a jolt of raw power running through my veins. Sometimes it is something else entirely. Something heady and wild and atavistic. Just… Something.
And once that Something happens, everything changes.
