Sometimes I wish I were a man.
Not so that I could know what it is like to fuck loads of women (well maybe one or two), but so that I would know what it was like to fuck myself.
Narcissistic I know, but this desire of mine stems out of genuine curiosity about myself rather than arrogant self-love; I have no idea what I am like when in an erotic state and wish I could see and feel it from the male perspective.
Why should I want to know what it is like to have sex with me? Surely I should just enjoy the sex I have, or if I am that interested in the other viewpoint, ask the bloke, right? No. I mean, I enjoy sex. A lot. I love it in fact, that is not up for debate. When I am in the midst of passion with someone, I am not psychoanalysing or obsessing about what experience I am having: it’s all very simple – he makes me come, I make him come. Hopefully we can come together. Shared pleasure, combined release, electric intimacy. We can fuck with a passion, or we can make love with intensity - it’s all the same: two people sharing something wonderfully pleasurable, expressing themselves through physical intimacy.
But occasionally after the event, I find myself wondering: am I any good in the sack? When I let my kiss linger on his lips, does it excite him as much as it does me? When I run my hands across his chest and caress his nipples gently with my fingers, does it send shivers down his spine, like it does mine? When I am sitting astride his cock, does he feel electricity surging through him, almost pushing him to the edge, as I do?
I wonder if men know just how much pleasure they give me; if they are able to feel just how intensely turned on they make me, and if they know how much I enjoy myself. And I wonder if their pleasure matches my own heightened state of ecstasy, or whether I am just an average shag.
I really don’t know. Even when lovers tell me they loved a blow job or the way my pussy gripped them, or how I kissed them, I still feel moments of doubt: did they really enjoy it? Being the neurotic that I am, I regularly worry that they didn’t get as much pleasure as me, that my lustful endorphins cloud my views of the event: that whilst I was having convulsions, they were wondering how much more there was to come.
But if I could know what it was like to see myself in an erotic state; know what it felt like to be inside me; know what it was like to feel me climax - then I would know just how much my lover felt - and enjoyed - whilst shagging me. If I could, just for one night, have his perspective, then I would be able to:
Observe the sway of my breasts as I sit astride him.
Feel the heat of my pussy wrapped around his cock.
See how deep he can thrust into me.
Watch my face as the waves of pleasure consume me.
But I cannot ever know these things. I am truly jealous. I am stuck with seeing my pleasure reflected in my lover’s eyes, a mirror-image that doesn’t represent the truth: what he is able to see and feel and how much he enjoys it. It saddens me that I will never know this, that I will be forever dependent on estimating his pleasure through my own.
Still, it’s not all bad: I get to watch him come, feel his cock inside me, and have multiple orgasms, so it’s not like I was hard done by, being born a woman.