Writing about fucking

A fellow writer at Literotica asked me to read and give feedback on his stories. And so I did. One was excellent, one was very good, one was better than average. When he wrote me back, thanking me for my comments, he said something that sparked a response in me. He said:

I am not interested in writing about fucking. The role that sex plays in who we are, who we think we are, who we want to be - these are the issues that intrigue me. A natural and instictive act that some take as a mere matter of pleasure is so much more critical and powerful in terms of our self image. Hell, our very survival.

To which I responded, in a rather lengthy email as follows:

Sex. It is central to our lives because it is as fundamental a compulsion as the need to eat, or piss, or think. We are programmed to need it, because it is how we perpetuate our species. But we are also addicted to it because it feels so damned good. Its the pleasure principle.

I am polyamorous by nature and nurture--I grew up on a hippie commune of sorts and had no idea that for most people 'marriage' meant monogamy--in childhood it was not uncommon for me to see my parents in bed with someone else, or with multiple partners. Thus the possessive exclusivity of monogamous marriage is something that I neither understand, nor tolerate. I have never married, and doubt I ever will.

Men like the idea of me, or women like me, but the reality makes them doubt their manhood. I am neither insatiable nor promiscuous, but I am sensually aware of nearly every moment--and since most people do not understand the difference between sensual and sexual--eventually my partners awaken to an ego-involved realization that they are not 'enough' for me, and not only that, but something deep inside them wanted to be the one who could be. And so it goes.

Thus, my perception of sexuality is not only skewed for a member of my society, but also skewed for a woman. I like sex. I am unashamedly carnal. I like spending hours in bed with my lover, exploring each other, driving each other, attentive to the moment and his or her needs as they arise. I like going on walks, leaning over a park bench, and asking my lover to fuck me hard and fast, before someone comes along. I love being bound, I love the feel of a cock in my mouth and the scent of ball musk. I love sucking pussy, the feel of a woman's thighs pressed against my cheeks, the sound of moans erupting from her. I love the feel of a cock sliding in and out of my ass while I'm riding the magic wand on my clit. I love speeding down the highway with my lover in the driver's seat and me with my feet up on the dash, playing with myself, perfuming the air with my scent and my cries... and then switching, me driving while he uses my vibrator on his cock, talking to him, egging him on toward orgasm, and all the while, people in their SUV's and trucks looking on, eyes wide, silly grins on their faces, passing us with a thumbs up in their rear-view mirrors.

I am not twisted up about sex like most people, obviously. And so I can write about it with child-like enthusiasm and delight--with the same delight most people wish they could experience. And that is the need I feed with my stories... the need for pure sensuality and joy in one's sensual self. Do I write just about fucking? I think so. I create the setting, and then I write, as evocatively as possible, about the actions, the sensations, the thoughts and emotions that occur between the lovers in that scene. That occur the way the should occur--and would--if our thoughts and fears and egos and socialization did not get in the way.

I wonder if he will understand what I mean?