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There are two main ways of doing it:
sexually or sensually. Sexualists are into sex. Sensualists
are into eroticism: stuff that isn't sex but involves the suggestion
of sex. Sensualists are romantic — they set the mood. They
notice details like texture and scent. They light candles. They
have plenty of time and they are ready to explore the options.
Baths have a purpose beyond getting clean if you are a sensualist.
You take retreats and sabbaticals. You lie in mud. You kiss for
a wicked long time. And I suspect you of liking jazz.
Sexualists, on the other hand, are more enthusiastic,
garish, brutal. We're on a mission. Food is something we eat when we are hungry.
We don't see the whole picture. While the sensualists toil over preparations
for the perfect evening, sexualists make do. We screw in our work clothes at
a truck stop in five minutes flat. We're just that way. I'm not waiting around
while someone lights some damned candles. If you know what you want, why do other
stuff first? We sexualists are propelled forward in life, not sideways. While
sensualists luxuriate  among
the world's endless possibilities, sexualists live with definite goals, which
we pounce on and pummel into submission.
I had sex with a sensualist once. He hung his long hair (ugh!)
around my face like a tent, cutting off all my light, and said, "How
does that look and feel?" Then he paused. I realized he was waiting
for me to compliment him on his eroticism — and until I did, he
was withholding. Withholding thrusts! So I lied and said, "That's so
cool."
Sensualists have sex without orgasms on purpose. They call it
tantric sex. I'd call it a bad date. Let's tell it like it is: sensualists
are sick. They sniff feet and get a hard-on. I'm fixated on a single
star — I jump on a rocket ship and explode in orgasm, and that's
it. So much is going onwith those other people. They have a
richer world. Secretly, I wish I too could get all excited about colon
hydrotherapy and the rest of those wacky fetishes. I just don't understand
it at all.
Sensualists do stuff with their fluids. Why? When giving a blowjob,
the obvious thing to do is swallow the semen — it's neat, polite,
and efficient. I don't smear it or drip it into the guy's mouth, or
any of those other things that I know sensual  people
are going around doing. The guy already came; he doesn't want to be
doing anything messy anymore. Getting come sprayed in your hair or
on your breasts or wherever is fine, because it adds to the excitement
of the ejaculation. The woman gets to be defiled (which is always a
good time) and the man gets to actually see his claim being staked
on the woman's person. It makes sense. Of course, being a little anemic
myself, I always prefer to swallow (for the protein).
Sexualists hate nothing more than someone who takes too long. Oh
god it's so awful — they peer into your eyes and they stroke you
and say, "Mmm." I read recently that 51% of Canadians surveyed said
they valued their partner's satisfaction above their own. Above their
own! Quit looking at me, Canadian lover! It's a lot of pressure having
someone hovering up there, worrying about my orgasms. Just leave me
alone — I know how to get there. I mean, don't leave me alone,
but . . .
Sensualists write long letters. Erotic letters should be two
lines: "You are the most attractive person I have ever met in my entire
life. I'm dying with desire — dying!" This should get your
message across with a minimum of fuss. I wonder about people who send
four-page single-spaced letters about what they'd like to do. Just
come over to my house and do it already! Once you've figured out your
feelings,  wouldn't
acting be the next logical step? The Scorpions said it best: "There
are no words to describe all my longings for love."
69 is strictly for the sensualists. They want to have their
mouth on an organ, scent in their nostrils and flesh in their fists
while you-know-what is going on down there. Not me! I need to concentrate.
I can't even think, much less perform, while that's going on. Why do
two half-good jobs concurrently instead of two marvelous deeds separately,
one after the other? One must prioritize.
One activity I'm not sure about is anal sex. It works and it
hurts, two things we sexualists like. But it's considered gross and
deviant, so their kind goes for it as well.
I recently learned there are two ways to fuck a tub. In a conversation
with a sensualist, it came out that we both masturbate by lying under
the bathtub faucet. But she likes to let it just barely dribble onto
her you-know-what and let the pressure slowly build, while I turn it
up all the way and swivel right up to the opening where the water rushes
hardest. That's when I understood: the sensualists are in it for the
long haul — they want to be enfolded in sensation, they want to
expand their consciousness to the breadth of the universe, encompassing
everything. Whereas I want to lose everything. I want to be smashed
to pieces.
You can tell right away which category people fall under. Well
of course if the man has long hair he's sensual. Oh lord, protect me
and my kind from the long-haired man and his slithery ways! Dangling
hair in their faces, dangling pauses in their speech (to show how meaningful
they are), dangling promises (threats) of future love, strange hands
and arms dangling allover me. They're big danglers, those sensualists.
They wear soft, spongy footwear and sculpt designs in their beards
and bestow multitudinous casual compliments to all. They're messy human
beings, with all that dangling and complimenting and beard-growing.
They're billowing with layers. Layers of issues, layers of scents,
layers of spirituality,  layers
of meanings to their song lyrics, layers of vests and scarves and belts
and brooches and other ungodly items I can't imagine having the time
to collect, store, coordinate and put away at night.
Whereas there's something startlingly accurate about
the sexualists. They're unfettered by facial hair or accessories or issues. They
have no issues. None! They have one or two beliefs, to which their lives are
devoted. You see them so sharply focused, so unswerving, and it's such a challenge
. . . you're dying to swerve 'em just a little. The externals might be slightly
in disarray (shirt half-tucked-in, half out), but inside they are robots on fire.
They can appear cruel and emotionless . . . and, well, on a bad day, they are.
But at least they're not hypocrites, issuing protestations of caring for others
in order to show off their soul and paw your body. Plus, sexualists have better
shoes.
I can spot a sexualist on the street blocks away. They
pass by me, and I am briefly but utterly possessed by their voracious yet uncaring
eyes. Oh my god I do like them. I want to be had in a doorway by each and every
one of them. Sexualists burn everything out — habits, towns, lovers — because
they are so ravenous. Burn me out, please!
Henry Miller and Marilyn Monroe stand out as sensualists.
Jack Nicholson is a big sexualist, though I hate to admit he's in our camp because
he's such a letch. That's okay — we have Joan Collins and Xena the Warrior
Princess too.
Some of my best friends are sensualists. Though I don't understand
their ways, and would rather they didn't have their way with me, sensualists
do make interesting and loyal friends. Like Rachel. Rachel will dance
for hours naked in front of the mirror. If I found myself all alone  in
the house, naked and dancing, I'd say, "What am I doing?!" and put
some clothes on and go back to work. I always read you're supposed
to do little things just for yourself to bring out your sensual side,
but what kind of game is that? Can you really flirt with yourself?
You already know what the outcome is going to be. I can make myself
come in two minutes. Why spend two hours? I suppose I admire sensualists
for their patience, just as I admire babies for having such a good
time with round plastic things all day. I envy aspects of their experience,
but finally both babies and sensualists are aliens to me — I can't
imagine trading places with either one.
There's more of them. More sexualists were raised Protestant,
and more sensualists Catholic. And since the Catholics greatly outnumber
us Protestants, so do the sensualists. I see an army of massage-oiled
zombies looming and leering, promising pleasure, as we cower, shaking,
in the middle of our small wagon-circle defense. It's not enough that
they have each other — they want us too! They want to play our
bodies like fine-tuned cellos,employing all their acquired love-making
skills. But we'll fight for our right to cram our pleasure into a few
minutes — a powerful concentration of destructive joy — rather
than letting it linger on, seeping all over our precious afternoon.
We'll fight for the right to ram and be rammed! Um, do you want my
phone number?
n°
©1997 Lisa
Carver and Nerve.com
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