Artistry

There’s an artistry to pleasure. I’m not the Anglo-Saxon rough words type. Anything too explicit turns me off. Yet it is a struggle to be prissy and get lost in pleasure. And I want to be asked to try naughty, sexy things, so there’s a conundrum between the paradox of letting go and maintaining my outdated perceptions of dignity. Rather than getting my head into the game, it’s good to adjust course according to whether my body is enjoying it, banishing the judgmental part of me in favour of the responsive side that wants to be led into bad ways and enjoy them. Censoring myself stops the pleasurable haze I long for, yet I still put up all the criteria for entry. It’s confounding. I’m searching for beauty and avoiding sleaze, yet who’s having the most fun?