Confessions of a Sexy Sloth

At one time, I never got into bed without trying to prove something. With one lover, I tried to prove that my throat knew no resistance or limitation. I enjoyed testing myself to see how long I could hold out without coming up for air. My own pleasure was sometimes a small incentive next to the heady goal of driving a man crazy, leaving hm in the dust wondering what had just hit him.

I taught my lovers how to turn me on, but I wanted to challenge them by being better in bed, not just good. I enjoyed startling my lovers with provocative requests and if I corrupted them in the process I was happier. Men were attracted to my independent nature. and I liked seeing the look on a new lover's face when he was asked to tie me up or spank me. Although my partners felt lucky to be getting laid with someone who was aggressive and experienced, I was always hunting around in my head for a kinkier thrill or a stronger sensation. I wanted them to know I was hotter, more imaginative and less easy to satisfy than they were. I wanted to be the one who always pushed.

Did I go out with men who were as practiced as I was in the kinky arts and sexual sciences? Not on a bet.

A few months ago, I fell into bed with a man who started teaching me how to be a lazy sex partner. One night, Jack decided to blindfold me, something that, believe it or not, I'd never tried. He searched my lingerie drawer for the right scarf to wrap around my eyes, then pointed out that we needed cotton balls to prevent light from filtering through the fabric. I was impressed, for a change: I wasn't used to a man coming up with his own new ideas.

Being made love to by a man who doesn't view
me as a sexual superpower makes me feel sexy and fallible.

When he proceeded to distract and delight my pussy with skillful fingers, I found myself building up to a new kind of orgasm. His light, airy touch made me feel delicate, precious, privileged. Where was the heavy sultry intoxication that I thought I needed for stimulation?

After I came, he removed my blindfold and insisted that we go out to dinner.

This unnerved me. What about his pleasure? Could I give him as much pleasure as he gave me? Was I pulling my weight in bed? I felt guiity about being passive, then began to realize that Jack might never enjoy his orgasms in the way that he enjoyed mine. Could I handle this? I wasn't sure.

Laziness, however, won out. The orgasms I have when I allow myself to be indolent are so luxurious and so much sweeter than anything I experienced while trying to outdo every guy I hopped into bed with. Being made love to by a man who doesn't view me as a sexual superpower makes me feel sexy and fallible. I no longer care whether I am one of the world's greatest lovers. My body, re-programmed by the steady bliss of passive lovemaking, looks forward to its next lazy, leisurely encounter.

Being lazy in bed is a skill, at which I find myself a born-again novice. And whenever I feel guilty about my laziness, I remind myself that I have more than earned my right not to lift a finger in bed.