I don’t see myself as a sexual being, as someone who can go out and get what they want, which is alarmingly disappointing. I wish I did, but as it stands I don’t and I’m not sure how to. Perhaps it’s because my self-esteem is low, or because I don’t think I’m desirable. Maybe it’s for a whole plethora of reasons, who knows. I’ve had sex, just nowhere near as often as I’d have liked to – and never as good as it is in my head. Rather than the perfunctory ‘in-out-in-out’ I’ve experienced with men, or the somewhat awkward, more complicated but longer, and less disappointing sex I’ve had with women, I want explosive, crazy, mind-numbing and earth-shattering passion. I want that sense of freeing inhibition, the hedonistic, primal, sweat-inducing sort of sex. A power struggle, a fight for dominance.

Essentially, I want someone to fuck me and get fucked back. I don’t want sweet and soft, I want hard and fast; I want to tease and be teased; for pleasure to be the only coherent thought left. I’m tired of having the type of sex where I’m still able to think about how my body looks from this or that angle, or whether I unplugged my hair straighteners before leaving the house. To be honest, I haven’t bothered having sex in a while because it’s always been the same – I’m bored, I’m uncomfortable and I can’t come. I want to be so turned on I can’t remember my own name. For me, or at least in my experience, the build-up to sex has always been the best part; the tension and the flirtatious looks; the desire and the intimacy of a shared feeling that neither of you seem to be able to control. I don’t mean foreplay, I’m talking about before any of that’s even started.

Perhaps it’s relatively vanilla in comparison to other fantasies, or maybe it’s a cliché, but I want to feel as though I’m in a haze of pure sexual desire. Where the tension is so high and lust is all there is. Maybe I’ve met him or her in a bar or club, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. But now we’re in a taxi fighting to keep our hands off each other. Fighting, and losing. Their hand finds its way between my legs and it’s all I can do to not rip my trousers off in the back seat. I push their hand away but I don’t mean it, and they know that too, so right back it goes, higher and stronger this time. I’m so lost in want, I don’t care if the driver sees. In fact, perhaps I want to be seen. They’re teasing me and I’m willing, so willing I’d probably let them do anything. Somehow, we’ve made it to whoever’s place is closest – or a hotel, who cares. We’re stumbling out of the car. No further than the hallway, though, before we’re tearing clothes from bodies and throwing one another against the nearest wall. I’m pinned to whatever surface I’ve landed against, and although I’m pushing back, there’s no real force to my movements – I’m exactly where I want to be. Their hands are everywhere, my whole body feels hot, it feels electric, it feels alive. I feel alive. I’m practically writhing, caught somewhere between wanting this part to last forever and wanting to be falling off the edge. I’m so distracted I barely register that I’m being lifted and carried to the bed, or sofa – whichever it is, it’s soft as I’m thrown onto it. The rest of my clothes are pulled from my body, and with what little capacity I have, I rip theirs off too. Hot, sweaty skin on skin. Nails digging into backs, hands grabbing sheets, backs arching, eyes rolling. Calling out obscenities to a God I don’t believe in. Barely coherent ramblings and pleas tumbling from my lips. Moans caught in my throat, pushed out by gasps and noises I didn’t know I could make. At this moment nothing else exists, just pleasure. I’m fully present in the moment. It’s chaotic, it’s explosive. And once we’re done (and we’ve started again, and we’re done again), I leave. I grab the clothes I can find, fix what’s left of my eyeliner and walk straight out the door. I’ll forget my insecurities, I’ll forget their name, but I won’t forget the feeling.

White Maltese • NA • Between £15,000 and £29,000 • Bisexual/pansexual • Single • No