We went out. We ate, drank and made merry. We chatted with friends and draped the frosty air with tinsel. We laughed. The wine glasses emptied by the gulp.
And then we went home, noses cold, hand gripping hand, voices just slightly too loud.
The beautiful thing about knowing him so well, about him knowing me so well, is that drunken sex is a giggling, wriggling thing, but ultimately, clumsy or not, we play a chord. We know what we want. We know how each other works. There’s little hesitation, little confusion. Everything is collaboration.
We fall laughing onto the bed. We’re a tangle of smart jackets and sparkly dress hems. We strip, sexily, faltingly. Coordination is not our strong point.
We’re naked. The bedroom is cold, but alcohol provides a blanket. Our gay apparel lies discarded.
He’s on top of me, as I lie back topsy turvy on the bed. My head jingles, my mind is fuzzy, but my cunt is clear. I don’t need him, but I want him. I want his heat to penetrate mine. And I’m not shy about it.
I tell him bluntly. He grins. Wine has dissolved any pretence, any oh-so-human façade. Animal natures are laid bare. Eat, drink, fuck, sleep. We’ve done two of them and the buzz in our veins makes us just not ready for the final one.
He pushes inside me, lust overtaking sluggishness of the blood. He is as hard as ever.
I undulate under him as he pumps. I learn it’s a need after all. Not a conscious, reasoned need, but a feral one. It’s not my mind that needs him, it’s the air in my lungs, the blood in my veins and, if I’m honest, the wine in them too. I’m grasping and he is giving. He too feels the lure of alcohol and animalism. He thrusts and I cry out without hesitation or moderation.
I’m rubbing my clitoris furiously. Here is where drunken sex falls down. The beer blanket is warming, but provides a quilted layer between my fingertips and the nerve endings of my clit. I’m numbed. My clit is wrapped in cotton wool and indulgence. But my pussy still spits with fire and feeling.
I decide I don’t want to rub my clit any more. I decide it’s not actually necessary that I come. My pussy sings with sensation. That’s enough. It really is.
That’s mind-blowing in itself. If I’d never felt this way before, I’d have laughed in your face if you’d suggested it. But it’s not the first time. An orgasm really isn’t everything, not when the walls of my cunt are pushing and being pushed, not when he’s opening me up deliciously with each thrust, not when I’m riding the crest of pleasure/pain and diving into the feeling of him fucking me (too?) hard.
It’s not all I need, though.
I need more sensation. My dulled senses thrive on it. Bigger, harder, rougher, faster. I move like a steam piston under him and watch his face contort between loving smile and losing it.
“Bite me”, I both beg and demand.
He obliges, face buried into my neck, teeth nipping at my skin, tongue wet and breath heavy.
“Bite me!” I shout, although he’s already doing it. He’s already biting and bucking and fucking me hard.
I feel as on top of the world as I can be with no orgasm, no throbbing clitoris. The experience is intense. Our connection, equally so. We know each other so well, that even inebriated and exhausted, we’re guiding each other to that delirious freefall that is absolute pleasure.
Not gentle, not classically romantic. Full of yelps and sweat and calling him “bitch” in loving, honeyed gasps.
He comes, moaning, thrusts shuddering slowly to a crawl and then a halt. I stroke his hair, he clambers off, we clean ourselves up and, swapping our beer blanket for a real one, slip drunkenly into sound and smooth sleep.