I thought I was having very good sex, actually.
I was an unbridled, uninhibited, sexual adventuress, unconstrained by taboo and willing to experiment, to push boundaries, to go that little bit further in pursuit of liberation and revolution. My ankles were looped around my neck and I left with bruises that lasted a week, and so, I reasoned, it must be good. Samantha Jones told me so. I got off on compliments about my oral skills and flexibility, because (urgh, this is mortifying) mostly sex had been about my ego.
The thrill of the chase; the build up; the seduction.
The validation, then.
The actual naked bit was largely incidental.
That I could do it was better that actually doing it.
Sometimes I’d orgasm and sometimes I wouldn’t. Occasionally I’d fake it. Almost always I’d keep my emotional distance, and seldom would I see him again. I’d never get attached.