Erotic nostalgia


Woke up this morning feeling pretty coiled up in the best way. I walked around and discovered I was in the grip of some kind of sexual nostalgia. Sexual nostalgia may not be the best sort of nostalgia, but it’s just about the most fun. I figure most people have experienced it at some time or another. You know how it is, you recall all sorts of things connected to the sex act, from great roots to subtly erotic moments that linger a lot longer than any orgasm. Maybe that’s what it really is, erotic nostalgia rather than sexual. The erotic is much more than just the sex, it’s the mind too.

That probably explains that when these fleeting memories cross my mind they’re rarely about those rushed acts of sex that happen periodically. It’s not often you find yourself recalling a one night stand, satisfying as it might have been at the time. I’ve had sex with about half a dozen different women this year, and I struggle to recall much about most of them, and that’s been the same for years. I’ve never been one of those guys who keeps a running tally of conquests. I probably started off that way when I was about 17, but lost interest. I’m not really that kind of guy. In one way though it’s damning, because I have no idea of how many women I’ve been with, and I think likely that there are dozens I need some kind of hypnosis to recall.

There are things I do remember though, and in the best way – with a kind of tender eroticism. I remember an image from earlier this year, a girl lying naked beside me who turns and reaches for something on the bedside table. Her lovely arse is presented to me as I glance over. I see her puss slick from the sex we have just had, a tangle of dark hairs surrounding the tender pink meat of her. It’s a delicious sight that my mind snaps at that moment to preserve for posterity. I remember the same girl how she would steal into my room long after midnight, take off her clothes and lay beside me. In the dark we would fuck. By contrast to the other memory, at the time I was ‘all there’ – it’s only in hindsight do I recognise the romantic lyricism of those times.

There’s a girl, giggling, who tries to fuck me in the bath – always a difficult operation; and who later, out having a drink, guides my hand done the front of her knickers to her hungry vag – while she looks at me with a smile worthy of the Mona Lisa.

Of course, there is something intensely rousing in all of this. Strange too, there is also something touchingly tender in the recollection.

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