The Best Sex I’ve Ever Had

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I’ve ever had was fast and unexpected, zero to 100 in 60 seconds, bent over a counter, a bed, the ledge of an observation tower at the park. It was fingers slipping inside my skirt in the parking lot behind the building where I worked, a blow job in a car downtown. It was spontaneous and planned, anticipated and a complete surprise. It was slow and sensual, hours turning to days turning to a weekend barely leaving my bed, his bed, the hotel bed’s bright white sheets.</p><p id="6281">The best sex I’ve ever had was with myself, propped up on two pillows on my bed, fingers slippery between my legs. It’s not exciting but it’s exactly right, the pressure perfect and easy. Blanketed in nightfall and finally-cool summer air, I read stories of threesomes and moresomes, my tension dissipating in simple, barely there movements, surrounded by dark quiet stillness.</p><p id="c2f8">The best sex I’ve ever had was slow and blurry, lazy pleasure tinged with weed and beer, my wandering mind lost in hyper-consciousness. Giggles and whispers passed between us as I forgot where I was and then remember to participate. He left a beer cap on my window ledge and I let it rest there in the sunlight for months.</p><p id="ade6">The best sex I’ve ever had was stolen as we sneaked through the trees and under the barbed wire fence onto the edge of the neighbor’s cow pasture. The grass cooled our backs and our eyes focused on the stars and it was utterly ordinary.</p><p id="6354">The best sex I’ve ever had was nothing more than words breathed into my ear, whispers in a crowded room describing what he might do to me if we were alone. Our connection so strong that my body knew to react whether he physically touched me or only touched my mind, orgasms borne from the ideas dropped like honey into my consciousness.</p><p id="4e0b">The best sex I’ve ever had ended the night I went on my first real date since I was 19, my belly full of pasta and the cocktails from the hotel bar where he let me taste his martini and bashfully told me he’d reserved us a room. He said he hoped I didn’t mind, and I told him I was glad. We fumbled a little, my excitement met with his nervousness at connecting with someone besides the wife who’d left him, and it was languid and gentle and hushed.</p><p id="81cc">The best sex has no solid state, it’s a moving target that can be hit often and repainted in perpetuity. It is the opportunity for discovery, the uncharted territory of a never-ending map, a surprise waiting around the bend. It is connection with

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my deepest love and with a new fling, it is a series of moments where all is right.</p><p id="7c5a">The best sex I’ve ever had hasn’t happened yet. It will happen again and again. Quiet, loud, breathy and growling, it speaks languages only a soul can understand. It’s not a day or a night, not a moment or an hour. It’s a feeling, an instinct, it’s the knowledge and excited anticipation of finding that place again and again and again.</p><p id="3a70"><b>Don’t miss a thing! <a href="https://mailchi.mp/430bba672ebf/rachaelhopewrites?source=post_page---------------------------">Sign up for my weekly newsletter here</a>.</b></p><p id="0837"><b><i>You might also enjoy…</i></b></p><div id="3e5e" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/an-orgasm-is-not-just-an-orgasm-e64fdc39b5db"> <div> <div> <h2>An Orgasm Is Not Just an Orgasm</h2> <div><h3>Orgasms are like a box of chocolates… if you don’t like one flavor, try another</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*My0B3VS7J_Pl7XwdqPmB4A.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="c665" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/cunt-dd40c633c68b"> <div> <div> <h2>Cunt.</h2> <div><h3>Power and ownership through reclamation</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*K9sw6zOPHNbDCbNj)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="fbef" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/things-you-should-know-about-sex-with-fat-girls-d3d04097011c"> <div> <div> <h2>Things You Should Know About Sex With Fat Girls</h2> <div><h3>When people make the assumption that fat girls don’t have bangin’ sex lives, I feel like I have some kind of amazing…</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*PEySjKZnY7aQ4iOjvTBlqA.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

It’s the opportunity for discovery, the uncharted territory of a never-ending map.

The best sex I’ve ever had happened years ago and last night, it happened once, twice, and then again. It’s been so long that I’ve forgotten, and it hasn’t been long enough to prevent me from tightening and shivering at the memory of it.

The best sex I’ve ever had was the first time I fucked someone I never married, a drunken, explosive, utterly joyful three hours in a hotel room as snow fell softly across the parking lot. It was unremarkably exhilarating, a key to unlocking the beginning of the rest of my life, a temporary antidote to pain and confusion. Who he was mattered a thousand times less than who I felt like in those moments.

The best sex I’ve ever had was the night I spent in a hotel with a tattooed soldier with abs for days. I forgot his name halfway through the whiskey-soaked night, my head hanging off the end of the bed, naked with sheets bunched around me. Instead of being mad he teased me and laughed about it. We forged an immediate familiarity we had no right to, a magical fantasy only available to people who know they’ll never see each other again.

The best sex I’ve ever had is dripping with consent and comfort, it is a fantastical reality manifested by desire and curiosity. We have been together five years or we have never met, we have had sex a hundred times or this is our first time.

The best sex I’ve ever had was my first time at a dungeon party, surrounded by the sounds of other people’s pleasure. Sober, I was drunk on kink, on the knowledge of eyes on me and him and us. I remembered and forgot where I was a dozen times before it was over. My empowerment got cranked to 11 and may never go back down.

The best sex I’ve ever had was the day he made me hold my orgasm back for so long that when he finally told me to get off, I burst into fits of hysterical laughter that I couldn’t stop. I shook and shuddered with pleasure and the technicolor romance and ecstasy of love, and he had to talk me through some guided breathing exercises to bring me back down to earth.

The best sex I’ve ever had was fast and unexpected, zero to 100 in 60 seconds, bent over a counter, a bed, the ledge of an observation tower at the park. It was fingers slipping inside my skirt in the parking lot behind the building where I worked, a blow job in a car downtown. It was spontaneous and planned, anticipated and a complete surprise. It was slow and sensual, hours turning to days turning to a weekend barely leaving my bed, his bed, the hotel bed’s bright white sheets.

The best sex I’ve ever had was with myself, propped up on two pillows on my bed, fingers slippery between my legs. It’s not exciting but it’s exactly right, the pressure perfect and easy. Blanketed in nightfall and finally-cool summer air, I read stories of threesomes and moresomes, my tension dissipating in simple, barely there movements, surrounded by dark quiet stillness.

The best sex I’ve ever had was slow and blurry, lazy pleasure tinged with weed and beer, my wandering mind lost in hyper-consciousness. Giggles and whispers passed between us as I forgot where I was and then remember to participate. He left a beer cap on my window ledge and I let it rest there in the sunlight for months.

The best sex I’ve ever had was stolen as we sneaked through the trees and under the barbed wire fence onto the edge of the neighbor’s cow pasture. The grass cooled our backs and our eyes focused on the stars and it was utterly ordinary.

The best sex I’ve ever had was nothing more than words breathed into my ear, whispers in a crowded room describing what he might do to me if we were alone. Our connection so strong that my body knew to react whether he physically touched me or only touched my mind, orgasms borne from the ideas dropped like honey into my consciousness.

The best sex I’ve ever had ended the night I went on my first real date since I was 19, my belly full of pasta and the cocktails from the hotel bar where he let me taste his martini and bashfully told me he’d reserved us a room. He said he hoped I didn’t mind, and I told him I was glad. We fumbled a little, my excitement met with his nervousness at connecting with someone besides the wife who’d left him, and it was languid and gentle and hushed.

The best sex has no solid state, it’s a moving target that can be hit often and repainted in perpetuity. It is the opportunity for discovery, the uncharted territory of a never-ending map, a surprise waiting around the bend. It is connection with my deepest love and with a new fling, it is a series of moments where all is right.

The best sex I’ve ever had hasn’t happened yet. It will happen again and again. Quiet, loud, breathy and growling, it speaks languages only a soul can understand. It’s not a day or a night, not a moment or an hour. It’s a feeling, an instinct, it’s the knowledge and excited anticipation of finding that place again and again and again.

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