The Weekly Mindfuck: Mess

There are a few characteristics that have always seemed to define me: My nail polish is usually chipped. My hair is unruly at best, my socks never match, and I frequently have four or five books strewn across my bedside table, all of which I'm reading at once. The truth is, being too neat unnerves me. It feels dishonest. I am human, and being human means being messy. Imperfect. To avoid mess is to keep the walls up, to prevent anyone from seeing me, feeling me, knowing me. 

I've always felt this way about sex, even before I started having it. Even with when you're shaved, perfumed, and primped, sex is messy. Your hair gets tangled, you start to sweat, you're panting, moaning, screaming, whimpering. Your legs burn and your lips swell until dried saliva coats all the most sensitive areas of your body. You won't be able to tell until the next morning when you leave and come back, but the room is permeated with the heavy smell. Sex is a primal act, even when the emotions run deep. It's not an act I like to associate with sterility (beyond safety, of course). I don't want to worry about the wetness and the liquids and the sweat or the screams. If anything, I want to embrace it, create more of it, lose myself in it entirely.

The pinnacle of this for me is cum. Dipping my head down before we've even really gotten started to find a small drop of liquid pooling at the tip of his penis, licking it off as the anticipation builds beyond the point of cohesive thought. Embracing the strands of saliva that stick to the tip like spiderwebs when I move my mouth away. Relishing in the wetness of coming myself and anticipating the moment when he finally does, spurting it out in thick rivulets anywhere that seems more fun than where he came yesterday. 

It never occurred to me to ask him to come somewhere else, where I couldn't feel it or see it or taste it. Then again, being too neat has always unnerved me.