Do not bury your face treating it like a task
I want the look. I want you to clock it. That bit stays with me.
I can be filthy. I can be loud. I can talk someone through it like I have done this a hundred times, because I have. What I cannot stand is the man who disappears into the job of it. Head down. Jaw set. Like he is assembling a shelf and the instructions are somewhere near my hip.
I am not a task. I am not a level you unlock if you keep your face in the right place long enough. If I am coming, I want you to see it. That is the whole article, really. The rest is me circling it because people get weird when you say the quiet bit out loud.
I can tell when you have left the room
You do not have to go anywhere. You can be right there and still be gone. Hands doing the work. Mouth busy. Mind on whether you look good at it, or how long it is taking, or what you saw in a video last Tuesday.
I feel that. Course I do. I live in my body for a living, even when I am on a warehouse floor counting cages. I know the difference between someone who is with me and someone who is performing competence.
The competent ones are often the worst. They have a plan. They have a pace. They treat an orgasm like a box to tick so they can feel generous. Then they glance up like, done, yeah? And I want to laugh and also shove them off the bed.
Look at me. That is not a poem. That is an instruction.
Why the look matters more than the technique
Technique is learnable. I will tell you what I like. I am not shy once the door is shut. Slow down. Harder. There. Use your hand. Do not yank my hair like a handle off a cheap film. I will say all of that.
What I cannot teach you in a sentence is presence. The bit where you actually clock that I am about to go. Face changes. Breathing changes. I get less funny, which is how you know it is real. If you miss that because you are staring at the duvet, you missed the point of being invited in.
People online love calling it intimacy like it is a scented candle. I do not mean candles. I mean I want proof you are not just using my body as a way to feel good at sex. I want you to see me when I cannot arrange my face. That is the honest version. The smirk comes off. The makeup is irrelevant. For a few seconds I am not performing Els. I am just there.
If you cannot look at that, I will remember. Not in a revenge way. In a I know what you are way.
Do not treat going down like homework
This is where it happens most. A man gets between my legs and decides it is an exam. No talking. No checking in. Just commitment, like effort alone is the same as want.
Effort is nice. Want is better.
I like filthy talk. I like a laugh if something is awkward. I like you coming up for air and looking at me like you are pleased with yourself and also a bit ruined by it. What I do not like is the buried face, the locked jaw, the sense that if you look at me the spell breaks.
It does not break. It gets better. You see I am into it. I see you are into it. Everybody stops acting like this is a fire drill.
And if you are down there treating it like a chore you are very noble for doing, I will feel that too. I would rather you say you want a minute than martyr yourself into my skin. Martyrs are not sexy. They are tired. I get enough tired at work.
I do it as well, before you start
I am not above it. Sometimes I catch myself watching myself. Is my stomach alright. Is my face doing something stupid. That is the other trap. You leave your own body to manage the picture.
When I do that, I come slower. Or I fake the edges of it so the moment ends. Not proud of that. I have done it when I did not feel safe enough to be ugly for ten seconds. Safe is a big word. I do not mean marriage. I mean the person in front of me is not going to flinch if I look wrecked and pleased at the same time.
If you look at me, I stay. That is the simple mechanics of it. Your eyes keep me in the room. Mine keep you honest.
Porn taught a lot of you the wrong camera angle
I am not anti porn as a personality. I have watched plenty. What I am anti is you bringing the camera into my bed without the camera. All angle. No person. You go at me like there is a lens over my shoulder and the important thing is the shot, not the woman attached to it.
If you narrate me like a video, I leave my body. If you refuse to look up because that is how it looked on your phone, I leave my body. If you ask was it good like a customer survey the second it is over, I leave my body and then I leave your flat.
Look at my face. That is the script. Not the line you practised. My face.
What I actually want in the moment
Not a speech. Not a spiritual experience. Just this.
Stay with me when it builds. Hold my hip or my hand or my hair, properly, not like you are hanging off a bus. If I tell you I am close, do not panic and change everything. Keep doing the thing that got us there. And when I come, look at me. Let me look at you. Do not hide in my neck like eye contact is a fine you might get.
After, do not roll away like the job is done. Water. A joke. A hand. I feel safest when I am wanted after, not only while I am useful. That is not needy. That is how I tell if I mattered for more than the noise I made.
If you cannot do it
Say so. Some people find it too much. Fine. I would rather honesty than a man who stares at the wall and calls it concentration.
But if you want me, really want me, practise staying. You can be filthy and still be present. You can be a bit shy and still clock my face. You do not need to turn it into a dare or a workshop. You need to stop treating my orgasm like a task you will be marked on.
I will remember the ones who looked. Not because it was cinematic. Because for a second I was chosen in a way that did not need a caption. That bit stays with me. Long after the night, long after the cab, long after I have told the group chat a cleaner version of events.
So yes. Look at me when I actually come. If that makes you nervous, good. It should. It means you are in the room with a person, not a to do list.
