Explosive sexual chemistry isn’t something that can be faked or forced, bought or sold. There exists a tangible energy between some bodies that demands the mutual exploration of each other’s secrets and transcends the simple need to get off. It’s a hunger, raw and profound, that sends fingers seeking receptive skin, lips connecting passionately and magnetically, sets groins to grind like wild beasts driven instinctively to connect.
Over the last year, I’ve been lucky enough to be carrying on with a man with whom I enjoy a mutual inability to stop fucking. It’s a rare match in libido that’s been sustained for many months. Every time we meet, it’s mere minutes before we’re doing away with each other’s clothes, making it to a couch or bed if we can — but sometimes going no further than the floor beneath our feet. We’re humping, three, four, even five times a day, whether we have 48 hours together or two weeks. Our sexual chemistry is simply undeniable (and it doesn’t hurt that we get along well, either).
Besides a shared passion for frequent fornication, my lover and I rarely pass up a chance to get creative. We’ve done it outdoors, in public, in the car, and — as of publication time — on four separate continents. And like any other couples that can’t keep their hands off each other, we are no strangers to finding ourselves inside each other in the shower.
Anyone who’s bonked in the shower knows it can be a lot less sexy than it sounds. Yes, you’re naked, your hair’s a hot mess, and the steamy water invigorates the senses. But there’s a reason why the desire to practice babymaking in the shower tends to lose popularity in a relationship over time: It is almost always really fucking uncomfortable. Unless you’re one of those lucky jerks with dual showerheads, exquisite marble flooring with matching seats, and probably gold-leaf shampoo, then this story is not for you.
Recently, I was visiting my lover at this home when, lust in his voice, he invited me to shower with him. Unfortunately, like my shoebox of a San Francisco apartment, his place has a stand-up shower, no bathtub, and not nearly enough room to fit two writhing people comfortably. Still, I haven’t yet encountered a situation that would make me not want to fuck him, so I enthusiastically joined him under the stream and got to work on his cock.
I positioned myself in front of him, doggy-style, standing on my right leg while wrapping my left around his back, bracing myself against the slippery narrow walls with both arms. He supported my weight by holding my upraised leg and wrapped his other arm around my ribcage. We looked like a Picasso knockoff, but with fewer layers of meaning.
He valiantly pumped in and out of me as the hot water poured over our bodies. but even with occasional yoga attendance my legs, backs, and arms fatigued almost immediately. His exhaustion was quick to follow, and neither of us could maintain our positions. Don’t worry, I’m not one to leave a lover unsatisfied, so I made sure to finish him off with an sloppy, deep-throated blowjob.
It was less than an hour before spasms plagued my lower back, continuing for several days. My hips were sore, and he was tired, so it’s no surprise that we didn’t attempt to fuck in the shower again during that visit.
While tending to each other’s sore bodies, we agreed that shower sex is still sexy as hell, especially when unplanned — but there’s no reason it has to include awkward positions or days of pain afterward. Maybe some people will claim it isn’t truly shower sex unless you have the back spasms and weak knees to show for it, but they probably don’t have a glorified stand-up sarcophagus as their only bathing area.
Because we’re both big proponents of the scientific method, we’ve begun researching what we can do to make shower sex a more positive experience. He suggested installing a sex swing, which was a tantalizing idea — but one that quickly got the kibosh for being way too bulky. I thought of one of those suction-cup shower-sex steps, but they pop off really easily and make you slam your face into the walls — which is hilarious as all hell, but it hurts.
Moving isn’t an immediate option, but fucking our way into determining how to fuck even better is not the worst mission anyone’s ever set out on. I’m not about to deny our sexual chemistry just because of some roadblocks — cockblocks? — and the fact that it’s not straightforward makes it all hotter, anyway. Whether I end up wearing stilettos during bath-time or we become kama sutra masters, this is one sexploration I’m more than happy to embark upon.