The Weekly Mindfuck: Silence

Usually, long after everyone has gone to sleep, there's a moment - maybe the residual effects of a languid kiss that lingers too long, or maybe it's the inaudible hum of the silence throughout the rest of the house. Some of it is knowing that what you intended to deny yourself is betraying you, seducing you, arousing you. Maybe it's just reoccupying that mental space when having sex meant sneak small moment and dark corners and never knowing when you might be about to satiate yourself next.

Regardless of how or why, there's something electric about having sex in houses you know you absolutely shouldn't. It's the return of that high school rush - you know you'll be scolded if you're caught, and so you can't retreat to your room or finish each other off on the couch. It means lying down on the floor on the other side of the arm chair and covering each other's mouths or locking yourselves in the bathroom and having sex on the counter while the bathtub runs. It's movements that are calculated by loaded with tension, trying not to pant as the extra adrenaline of doing something illicit pumps through your veins. It's knowing that you had to have this - the one or two or twenty minutes you're sneaking, that it couldn't wait until tomorrow when you'd be in the comfort of your own room. That if you get caught, you get caught together, and that if you don't, you're still partners in crime.

It's dead silent, hurried, and restrained, but sometimes, it makes for the best sex of all. 

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