The best sex I’ve ever had started with desire, with that undeniable pang of lust in the pit of my belly that said, clear as crystal: I want you. Then, spontaneous and strategic touch, playful flirtations, suggestive tones of voice, and eyes that say, “Get me while I’m hot.”
Then. . . open-mouthed kisses; my body pressing heavily onto his; hands grabbing, gripping flesh; fingers fumbling to undo clasps and laces and zippers; heavy, synchronized breathing.
Then. . . guttural sounds that seemed to come from the bellows of the ground beneath me; wetness from sweat, from spit, from arousal; thrusting hips—deeper, deeper, faster, faster; hot, fiery heat; teeth and nails; pulsating climaxes with unfaltering eye contact; total surrender.
And afterward. . . a smell of salt, of musky-sweetness wafting through the air—sweat mixed with cum mixed with my own sweet nectar; heaving chests swallowing big gulps of air, throbbing hearts ready to burst, and eyes and mouths that still cannot stop searching for each other.
“Sex is animal activity.” —Osho
When I am unwaveringly in carnality, when my body is buzzing with unreserved horniness, when I am hyper aware of my nakedness, my wildness, my animalness, I have the best sex of my life.
In those moments of total animalistic beingness, there’s no preoccupation with my stretch marks or whether I’m messing up the sheets or worrying about my cries of pleasure disturbing the neighbors. I care about nothing. I know nothing. All that exists is pleasure and my ravenous hunger to claim it with my body.
Like a bitch in heat.
More and more I’m realizing (and vividly experiencing) the connection between sex/sexuality and my wildish self—that is, the self that is not dignified or docile, but feral, fierce, and maybe even a little savage; a side that I’ve been so accustomed to suppressing.
Because wildness, while liberating, can be an absolutely scary, ferocious thing. In wildness, there is no control; no fences, no masters to request permission from—just our instincts, our compulsions, our need to feed.
In wildness, anything can happen. Vile things are capable if we gave way to it: teeth gnashing, mouths foaming, eyes flashing, blood spilling.
There is a wild animal in us all with vicious, licentious tendencies. And we often keep this animal caged away as a way of protection.
We suppress our wildness to protect the innocent. Understandably.
For me, however, that caged animal—my caged animal—never fails to break free during sex.
No locks can hold her, no ropes can bind her. Sex stirs and instigates her, rattles her cage, riles her up, brings out her fury. She busts loose, and no matter how hard I grip her chains, digging my heels into the ground, fighting with all of my might to get her to mind me. . . she rips and roars and has her way.
And rather than fight against her (because it is utterly exhausting), I’ve begun to let her have her way, to give her space to roam wild in desire and wreak a little havoc, to allow her to satiate her innermost hungers with abandon.
But. . . I keep her on a long leash—that is (to keep with the metaphors), I stay conscious.
I let her have her way, but I don’t walk away from her unsupervised; that would be totally irresponsible of me. No, I remain a vigilant witness. I see it all, my eyes fixated on her movements, even (and especially) when she’s getting crazy. I watch her closely, staying present to her fierceness.
In doing this, she transforms into a not so scary, not so threatening being. Her wildness becomes beautiful, something magnificent to behold, a powerful force of nature that requires deep honor and reverence.
Consciousness in wildness creates a safe space for our animalistic natures to be fully explored.
And this, of course, doesn’t just apply to sexual expression. This can be harnessed in exhibiting fierce self-love, in speaking our truths, or in expressing and releasing dark energies—anger, fear, sorrow.
Wildness needs space. Wildness desires freedom to be expressed. And sex can be an easy way to curiously explore our wildish tendencies, if only we remember to keep a mindful, watchful eye on it.
You’ll know when you’ve wandered into wild territory when your beloved looks into your eyes after an unrestrained sack session, their breath harried as they wipe their brows, saying hoarsely: