Unforgettable sex

ANALYSIS BY Dr Daniel Amen

ANONYMOUS SEX

He was my fantasy guy. I got the hotel room
By: Mary Levy

Every woman holds an image in her mental wallet of what her perfect lover looks like and she’s spent more than a little time alone playing out a chance meeting with him in her head. Two years ago, while visiting my twin sister in New York, I found my fantasy guy at a party.

Dark hair, dark eyes – he was a high-rise of a man, standing a good 15 centimetres taller than my 178cm frame. Even under a black wool sweater, he had arms that I knew could toss me into the heavens. He was the handsomest man I had ever seen. I was in love. I mean lust.

I don’t remember if he introduced himself. What I do remember is this: the attraction was mutual, palpable and instantaneous. After the party, we shared a cab and exchanged numbers.

We spent the next afternoon on my sister’s couch, talking backgrounds, flirting and, eventually, talking sex. Couch time morphed into early drinks, then dinner, then more drinks at a mutual friend’s apartment. A little after midnight, we split from the group for a late-night karaoke bar, where we sat in a private room, leg over leg, on a black fake-leather couch. We had no other place to go.

He was staying with a friend. I was staying with my sister. At three o’clock in the morning, halfway through my painful rendition of The Devil Went Down to Georgia, I turned to him and said: “Let’s get a hotel room.”

I’d never done anything like that before. Truth is, I probably thought less of any woman who had. But I’d said it, couldn’t take it back and didn’t want to. He paid the bill in record speed, then pulled me off the vinyl couch with an audible sluurpop! of sweaty legs. We hit the streets of Chinatown looking for a hotel.

When we finally found a room, I was the one who slid my credit card to the man behind the counter. It was my idea. There was no discussion. Boots were unzipped and shirts ripped off before the elevator reached our floor. The room was small and dirty. We were practically in the shower before the door swung closed. I’m still not sure if we were trying to wash away evidence of where we were or what we were about to do or both. But, as he towelled me off and swung me onto the bed, I knew I’d made the right decision.

He picked me up. He didn’t drop me.

It turned out that talking about sex earlier in the day was the best kind of foreplay. And in the hours that followed, he proved himself a great listener. I wanted to be told what to do by a partner who was physically strong enough to throw me around a little and wasn’t afraid of bruises, accidental noises, rug burns, muscle aches or sweat. Arms were held back, legs moved up, bodies flipped, turned, licked and tucked. It was furious and unforgettable.

I’m not so naive as to think he ever wanted anything more than a one-night stand. But he skilfully played the part of my perfect lover and, in return, I played out my perfect fantasy.

MARATHON SEX

The sex was endless, even if the love wasn’t
By: Sasha Cagen

The first time Nathan and I were about to have sex, he asked me, in his goofy-cheesy way: “Do you want to make love?” If anyone else had asked me in those words, I might have burst out laughing, but Nathan looked as if he meant it. I nodded, but with the familiar trepidation I feel every time a man is about to enter me for the first time.

My fear is that our intercourse won’t match up to what we’ve experienced so far; that all our fun exploration – sucking on each other’s ear lobes, lightly biting the small of each other’s backs – will fall away once we arrive at the main event. More often than not, orgasm becomes the goal.

As a woman whose Big O can take quite a while to arrive, I am often left quietly bristling with energy – while the guy beside me is completely spent.

With Nathan, I discovered that sex would be different. Not only did it last longer, but the way he felt inside me was much more satisfying. He moved subtly, slowly: stimulating me with little circles on the left, little circles on the right, nine shallow strokes and then a deeper thrust. There was no frantic in-out, in-out thrusting – what Carrie Bradshaw on Sex and the City called “jack-rabbit sex”.

He teased me with light movements. Sex was uncommonly slow, graceful and gradual and seemed to last for hours. My mind was blown. My body was grateful. Who was this man? And why did he have so much stamina?

Nathan confessed that an ex-girlfriend had given him a book on Taoist sexuality, an Ancient Chinese school of thought that views lovemaking as something to cultivate not only for enjoyment, but also for mental and physical health.

He said The Tao of Sexology: The Book of Infinite Wisdom by Stephen Chang had literally changed his life.

The Taoists believe in long-lasting intercourse (as many as “one thousand loving thrusts”), that true pleasure in sex is more than a momentary sensation of release. Pleasure is defined as never being able to get enough of each other. The Chinese texts have poetic descriptions of the way Nathan moved inside me – “Rise and then plunge low like a huge sailing boat braving a gale” or “Push in and pull out like a flock of seagulls playing on the waves”.

Not only did Nathan become a more considerate lover, but he also learnt how to separate orgasm from ejaculation and to come more than once during sex. His orgasms were more intense, full-body and satisfying. And I was able to lose myself completely – something I had never done during sex before. My brain emptied of thoughts, my body took over – our bodies coordinated. Instead of sex being linear, a race to the finish line, undressing each other in bed was more like entering our own private world.

Sex felt more creative, more open-ended and strangely infinite. We could go for as long we wanted – three hours or 10 minutes. He would be inside me, then out, shimmying down my stomach, kissing me down my midriff. The man had me in a trance. My favourite Taoist move was the simplest and least orgasm-focused: the “Morning Prayer”. We’d assume the missionary position. Nathan would use tiny movements to maintain an erection, but wouldn’t ejaculate. The goal was complete physical and mental connection and reaching a sexually meditative state. When we were together, motionless and calm, him inside me, even the smallest sensation felt very big.

Nathan used to joke that any couple who practised the Morning Prayer daily would never break up. I wish it were true. If our relationship outside the bedroom had meshed half as well as the one inside, we might have been partners for life.

BREAK-UP SEX

I hated him. I had to have him
By: Tobin Levy

Jim and I had been together for two months when we bought our plane tickets to south-east Asia. Three weeks into our three-month adventure, it was apparent that my boyfriend hated a lot of things about me – my affinity for stray animals, my small talk, the way I looked – things that were never going to change.

The relationship ended after our sojourn through Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos. We were at the airport, en route to Thailand, when he uttered the words: “It’s over.” We parted; and it was Jim’s suggestion that we not see each other until our departure date nearly a month away.

A week later, I was in Koh Lanta, a Thai island in the Andaman Sea, when he showed up at my bungalow. “I met the laziest kitty in Koh Chang,” he said, trying to win me over with a cute animal story.

There was a full Moon that night. Thailand is known for its full-Moon beach parties – with exotic music and even-more-exotic dancing – so we made our way down to the shore. At four in the morning, after deciding we’d had enough trance music for a lifetime, Jim and I started walking up the beach. When we could no longer hear umph-umph-umph reverberating from speakers, we stopped.

The sea was breaking on the rock formations that under the full Moon’s light were the most beautiful blue-black colour I’d ever seen. I looked at Jim, with his GI Joe buzz cut, his pale blue eyes and, below his left eye, the mole that I’d always loved even if I never loved him. He was standing between the water and me, his face a perfect silhouette against the starry sky.

Then the harsh realities of who he was, of who we were together, rushed in. I remembered the gastrointestinal trauma I’d experienced in Phnom Penh and how Jim had punished me with three days of silence for vocalising my pain.

Then there was our impromptu trip to Battambang, Cambodia’s second-largest city and home to the one hotel touted in Lonely Planet for its offerings of free porn. Jim was enthusiastic and I was determined to add spark to our rapidly dwindling sex life – but it was a bust. The hotel and the porn were both a little too seedy – too much yellow track lighting in the former and too much bondage in the latter.

“Just because the porn sucks doesn’t mean we can’t have sex,” I said. “I’m tired,” he replied, turning over and falling asleep.

There were an impossible number of recollections like these, but their severity was dulled against a backdrop that included a full Moon, a dramatic seascape and a handsome, half-naked man.

Jim was soon pulling down his swimmers and heading for the sea. I stuffed my miniskirt, tank top and bikini under his pile of clothes and joined him in the warm water. It was so salty that floating was effortless. Jim grabbed me from behind and turned me around so I could wrap my legs around him. He was standing, holding me up. We’d made out like this – on another island in a different body of water – weeks earlier, only now we weren’t dating any longer. We were waiting to go back to the US so that we could become strangers.

The kissing was familiar and furious, the culmination of weeks of resentment that the person with whom we’d gone on this trip wasn’t who we’d hoped they’d be. We stayed in the water until the sun started to rise.

When we got out, the cool air was exhilarating. We laughed hysterically as we struggled into our clothes so that we could run back to my room and tear them off each other again.

The lights were dim. The pinks and oranges from the sunrise were seeping through our windows. The sex was fuelled by a detached, energetic fury. It was raw sex – the kind you can have with a lover only when there is no love. We were free to be selfish and, by being selfish, we were both satisfied. It was break-up, not make-up, sex. Still, I went to sleep happy.

SHAMELESS SEX

He turned this good girl bad
By: Nicole Beland

When I started hooking up as a teenager, it was with all the hell-bent fervour for which Catholic schoolgirls are famous. Even so, orgasm has never come easily. Perhaps that’s why, as an adult, I’ve continued my quest for exceptional sex. I’ve bribed security guards so that my boyfriend and I could have a half-hour of privacy on the rooftop of a skyscraper. I’ve scheduled a ski vacation to coincide with the full Moon so that fooling around in the spa would be more romantic. I practise bizarre yoga positions hoping they’ll lead to bizarre sex positions.

So it’s ironic that the best sex of my life took place in an ordinary bedroom on an otherwise boring Tuesday night and didn’t include anything kinky. What made the encounter so memorable was a simple orgasm and then another and then another, and then another. It was the first time a man had given me multiple orgasms. I came four times over the course of one glorious hour.

My boyfriend, John, is a guitarist and lives up to every woman’s fantasy about musicians: he’s very good with his hands. (His fingers simply don’t quit.) He’s also innovative, frequently surprising me with new moves. But what I like best is that he gives me permission to be bad.

When I’m struggling to hit my peak, he whispers something dirty in my ear, forces his tongue into my mouth and pushes it around or gives my bum a few solid slaps.

On that particular Tuesday night, we had just had sex and I was enjoying the last waves of an orgasm. I was satisfied and assumed the fun was over. Then John flashed me a mischievous smile and slid his hand between my legs. He kissed me and gently pulled on my nipples and soon the nerves in my lower body began to hum.

Before long, I came again. After a few minutes, he rolled me on top of him and started thrusting upwards, encouraging me to grind my way to number three. My clitoris felt like a fuse that had been blown. My heart was pounding, my hair was damp with sweat and my body was tingling.

Collapsing onto the bed, I was literally panting with pleasure when he kissed his way down my breasts and belly and started licking me very softly until I screamed, “Oh my God!” all the way to the end of orgasm number four. (By the way, Sister Margaret, it was actually John I was referring to.)

ILLICIT SEX

He wasn’t my husband. That was the point
By: Deja Dunn

Jack and I had lusted after each other at various work functions; I was an artsy, theatre type, he a natty, well-heeled philanthropist. Both of us were sexual hunters ill-suited to the confines of our unhappy marriages and we were both open to . . . something.

Jack made me feel good. While my husband nagged me to lose weight, Jack loved my voluptuous self. We flirted, gossiped and, in truth, had already tipped into bed. Okay, bed is not strictly accurate. We’d indulged our private passions mostly in public places: nooks in hotel ballrooms, on his desk, under the stage after a show.

One night early on we agreed to dinner at a friend’s horse stud. In the candlelit dining room, our host regaled us with tales of horse breeding. How “teaser stallions” are used to arouse the mares and test their readiness for sex, only to be substituted with fine breeding stallions at the last minute. A breeder can’t risk the mare being injured during foreplay and stallions, like most males, are always up for a little rough play with a new and willing mate.

Amidst the whirl of wine and chatter, I felt my body tingling and heat rising on my cheeks. I excused myself and walked outside, feigning the effects of too much wine; within minutes, Jack stood next to me. He took my hand and we walked towards the curving fence that outlined the corrals. We climbed over it, dropping into the pasture. Jack immediately backed me up against the rails and kissed me feverishly.

That’s when the beasts began to gallop.

Their insistent whinnying reverberated across the moist grass. As they drew closer, we felt the ground tremble. Jack pushed aside my gauzy skirt and pulled down my panties; I tugged furiously at his shirt. He slammed me against the fence. I was lost to his insistent embrace.

The night had gone inky black and Jack entered me with a nearly primordial hunger. His kisses were like anaesthesia; I felt numb, lost. My hair snagged on the fence and I imagined it mingling with lost strands from the manes of fillies rubbing here in their own raptures. All the while, the stallions galloped around us, snorting wildly.

When we returned to the house, they all knew. We were sweaty and flushed with sex, visibly rocked. The ruckus in the pasture was abating and I poured myself a glass of wine and relaxed on the couch.

FEARLESS SEX

Everything seemed dangerous. Including him
By: Kristina Grish

It seems ridiculous in retrospect but at the turn of the millennium, I was bracing for the Y2K bug to bite. I was living in New York City, where looting and Times Square terrorist attacks were on the running list of potential disasters. My friends were leaving the city for a cabin in the country and I planned to follow – with board games. That is, until Phil called from LA, said he was rolling into town for New Year’s Eve and asked me to be his date.

A morbid game of “Would You Rather” flashed through my mind: Kristina, would you rather . . . keel over on a plate of mini-pizzas with a “Z” in your Scrabble queue or die in the strong arms of a hot man in an Armani tux? I had dumped my boyfriend five months earlier and hadn’t had sex since. I was extremely horny.

Suddenly, my will to live lost out to my will to get laid – maybe for the last time in my life. I said yes and went shopping. A revealing new dress and a supply of non-perishable canned goods were a must.

Cut to New Year’s Eve: New York City was nearly abandoned, eerie and surreal.

An easy-to-find cab brought us to a nearly empty restaurant in record time. Elderly couples and rowdy tourists replaced the hot spot’s usual hip crowd. As the doomsday vibe increased, Phil and I curled up in a corner booth and mocked everyone around us for being so gloomy.

Anxiety and life-or-death banter began to feel like hot foreplay.

When nothing happened, the calm seemed anticlimactic. My hormones were revved and I didn’t need a thumbs-up report from CNN to kill the mood.

We hurried back to my apartment, where I lit candles bought for the blackout – and, oops, set my bookshelf on fire. Phil beat the flames out with a blanket and with an enthusiastic kiss, I thanked him for rescuing me from our first real threat all night.

I looked at him and smirked coyly. Without a word, he dropped his pants. My hero hadn’t let bomb threats or stalled ATMs distract us thus far; he wasn’t going to let a few charred novels slow us down now.

We fell into bed laughing – and, to my surprise, we didn’t dive into the clawing, breathless, animalistic passion one might expect of two near-death-experience survivors. Instead, Phil slowly progressed with hand-here, mouth-there precision. Eyes open and watchful now, he ran his fingers over my skin and softly kissed my mouth for two hours before initiating the most tender, connected sex of my life.

I wrapped my legs around him with ease; he grabbed me in all the right places. We moved together in a soft, syncopated rhythm that I’d never experienced. Comfort and intimacy were immediate and beautiful.

After we finished, I put Carmen McRae’s Just One of Those Things on repeat and we shared one of the 24 bottles of Evian I’d stashed under my bed. If Phil had wanted peanut butter, crackers, chicken soup, protein bars or even half my savings that I’d also set aside for an impending global crisis . . . I would have gladly shared those, as well. The world hadn’t ended – and I felt more alive than ever.