Desire

Desire.

It’s one of my most favorite words in the dictionary. The word evokes so many things for me. From breasts dripping with sweat, the smell of sex, hot breath on your neck, nails scratching blood trails down your back, to eyes rolling in the back of your head orgasms, to her pussy grinding against my hand, my face, my crotch.

Desire is a dive bar that serves cheap booze and the smell of stale cigarettes is in the air. It’s the smell of sweat and the heat of bodies packed together, grinding, grazing, pushing and pulling towards one another. Desire is a beer bottle sliding on a guitar neck as the band plays the blues. Desire is the devil tempting me.

To quote Ronnie James Dio on Heaven and Hell: “There’s a big black shape looking up at me. He says I know where you ought to be! Come with me and I’ll give you, Desire. But first, you’ve got to burn, burn, burn, burn in fire!”

Desire is when she will drive two hours each way to come and fuck you. When she will get out of her car, throw herself against you, put her tongue in your mouth and you can taste the coffee and her need for you, and when she wraps her arms tightly around you and throws a leg around yours for good measure.

Desire is her walking through your door, climbing the stairs while stripping out of her shirt, dropping it on the staircase, unclasping her bra, and asking you, “Where’s your bedroom?” All while she hasn’t missed a step or a stride. Desire is the sweat in her hair as you pull it and the sweat on her breasts as you lick them.

Desire is her putting her arms around you while you are cooking bacon at the stove and she unbuttons your pants and sticks her hands down inside and grabs your cock and starts stroking you.

Desire is when you turn around and she drops to her knees in front of you, pulls your cock out of your pants and begins to suck. Desire is seeing her drooling while she is sucking your cock at the stove. Desire is when she pulls you from the stove and you absently turn it off so you don’t burn the house down and she is stripping, walking backwards to the bedroom as you pull your shirt off.

Desire is when you pull her pants and her panties down in one smooth fluid motion and she grinds her ass against your crotch and the juice from her pussy drips down onto the floor because she is so wet.

Desire is when she is breathless and can only whisper, “Fuck me. Fuck me now.”

Desire is when you are straddling her and she is gripping your cock and guiding you inside of her and she doesn’t care that you aren’t wearing a condom and she doesn’t care if you come inside her. That’s how bad she wants you.

Desire is when you come inside her and she screams and groans as you come and she comes too.

Desire is forbidden, taboo. Desire is carnal and naughty and earthly and smelly and messy and sweaty. Desire is salivating and salty and silly and funny sometimes too.

Desire is hot and exciting and wordless and breathless and sometimes it can be wrong but it feels so right and you do it and you want to keep doing it and when you’re done you want to do it again. Desire can move mountains and destroy civilizations. Desire is all that is holy and all that is sacrilege. Desire is heaven and hell.

Desire is biting and choking and bloody and sweet and tender sometimes.

Desire is about feeling and emotions. Desire is what is always tickling at the back of your mind.

Desire is a connection.

Desire is not a thesis. Desire is not an essay. Desire isn’t a set of variables that can be controlled for, not really. Desire isn’t an algorithm. Desire isn’t a computer simulation or a program. Desire isn’t a course on gumroad.

Desire isn’t logical or about logic. Desire isn’t contrived in a vacuum or in a laboratory setting. Desire isn’t rational. Desire isn’t about investment.

Desire just IS.

Desire is a fire. A burning. A need. A longing. A hunger.

Desire isn’t an equation to be solved for.

You can whisper desire. You can beg with desire. Desire will make you shudder and bring you to your knees.

You can write poetry about it. You can write and sing songs about it. You can play an instrument to it and harness it.

You can’t bottle it and put stock and credit into it.

Desire is the devil on your shoulder whispering to you to do all the things you want to do.

Desire is delicious.

Desire cannot be held in your hand and quantified and labeled and put in a jar on your shelf.

Desire cannot be negotiated. Desire cannot be “worked on.”

Desire cannot be controlled for and owned.

Desire is evocative. Desire isn’t sanitized and boring.

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“I Only Bang 9’s and 10’s Brah”

group of woman wearing bikini on body of water
How Would You Rate These Hunnies, Brah?

I’ve always sort of struggled with the “1-10 scale,” and that’s because, at least to me, it’s so subjective. What I consider an “8” you might consider a “5.” I see and hear guys on Twitter all the time saying stupid shit like, “I only bang 9’s and 10’s brah,” and it makes me laugh and roll my eyes.

Maybe I’m an extremely harsh critic, but I’ve never seen a “10” in the wild. I’ve never met one personally or been introduced to one face-to-face. That’s because, to me, a “10” is literally “perfect.” There are literally no flaws, at least physically, that I can see. I’ve definitely seen my share of “5’s,” “6’s,” “7’s,” and “8’s,” and I’ve even encountered what I would consider to be a “9” or even a “9.5” in the wild. In all of the years that I’ve been walking on the planet, I could count all the “9’s” and the “9.5” on one hand, and probably still have a finger or two left over.

That being said, I don’t ever recall seeing someone so ugly, so deformed, so hideous, as to be considered a “1.” To me, a “1” would be that person that no one would want to fuck, it’s really that bad. So that leaves the “2’s” on up to the “9.5” that I’ve encountered in real life.

I know I have my standards, as I’m sure you do as well. It gets really interesting when you move from the purely physical, to such things as personality, scent, and voice. I’ve met women that on initial approach, I would have rated them a solid “8,” only to catch a whiff of them, or hear them talk, or find out her personality is, let us say, “unpleasant,” and she drops to maybe a “5.” Sometimes even lower if the smell, personality, and voice are all left to be desired.

I’ve also encountered women that on initial approach I would have rated a solid “6.5,” and due to their personality, the way they smell, and their pleasant sounding voice, they got bumped up to a “7.5,” or even an “8.” Have that “6” do her hair, put on a little makeup in just the right amount, and have her throw on her “little black dress” and she moves up to an “8.5.”

You see and understand where I’m going with this don’t you? Everybody has their standards of what they find as attractive and everybody is throwing random numbers around. I’ve seen women rated as “10’s” that I would never even come close to giving that high of a mark to them. Other than seeing models in magazines (do you remember those?) or pictures on the internet, I honestly don’t believe a “10” exists.

Back in the day, Hot or Not used to let you rate people based purely on their looks. You might have been able to guess or get an age, and you might have had a name thrown in there for good measure, but that was it. It would blow me away when I saw women getting “10’s” or “9’s” as their rating, when to me, they might have made for a good “7” or “7.5” At least with Hot or Not, they would average all of the ratings out and you had a better idea of their “true rating.” Not super scientific, but at least it was something.

I even threw a picture of myself up there for shits and giggles, because aren’t we all curious what other’s think of our attractiveness? Of course I got rated as a “1” a couple of times (ouch!) and there were even a couple of “9’s” and “10’s” thrown my way (all I could figure was that I either fit that person’s particular niche, or they were just being really generous.) Turns out after about 500 ratings or so, I averaged at a “6.5” Not bad. It’s actually about where I would have rated myself in the past.

The thing is, the 1-10 scale is not only subjective in the sense of what we individually find attractive, it’s also subjective in the sense of what we think women ought to be.

A “5” is the top of the bell curve. She is average in every sense. She’s neither too thin or too fat. She’s not ugly, but she’s not beautiful. She honestly wouldn’t garner a second look if you were to meet her on the street. She’s just, average.

However, women (and men) today have changed over the years. Obesity is unfortunately the norm now. An “average” woman today is going to be overweight. Maybe not the clinical definition of obese or morbidly obese, but she’s going to be overweight. I’ve seen this firsthand on dating sites and apps where women today are describing themselves as “average” and yet to me, they are overweight. “Thin” is actually still thin, or in some cases, what I would consider “average.” Average to me has always been height/weight proportionate.

What are we to do in order to have some sort of standard when it comes to the 1-10 scale? How are we supposed to come to a concensus of what an actual “5,” or any other number actually is? Are we just “fated” to leaving the 1-10 scale as simply a matter of subjective preference and just “know beauty when you see it?”

Aaron Clarey over at CaptainCapitalism actually came up with an answer that I think actually works out if we are going to have some sort of realistic concensus as to what an actual “5” or any other number actually means in today’s day and age.

Go check it out.

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