I've always liked birthday sex. Hell, I love sex, and I like birthdays too - especially if they are my own. There's something narcissistically cool about getting presents and adoration for no reason besides the fact that you are a year closer to your own death. Especially if the presents are nice - otherwise, it just doesn't appear to work.
It wasy my girlfriend's birthday the other day (Saturday), and I rocked up with a couple of pretty unassuming, but entertaining, presents - the DVD of Miyazaki's Ponyo (master of all things animé, this guy, but how many times has he retired now?) and the necessary third volume from the Glee soundtrack - but they were wrapped up nicely in wrapping paper which wasn't Christmas-themed (must be a relief to not have snowmen or Santa or Jesus on your paper if you must insist on being born at Christmas), and there was a stylised "KITTY!", etched with sketching pencils and coloured in, rainbow-like, stuck on with sticky-backed plastic. Rather than just, you know, a tag. And, considering I ordered the presents from Amazon, took me the longest time to do.
We had some great sex on Saturday, and both occurrences stick out in my mind for different reasons. The first time was early in the morning and very sleepy. We switched positions a couple of times, and while kneeling up behind her, holding her hips for support, I rocked backwards a bit and caught a glimpse of a white world outside, everything blanketed in a cold, wet, deep snow. But at this point everything else got a little wet and deep, so I didn't have time to pay much attention (although wading through said snow later on in order to buy a birthday lunch made its presence a little more present in my mind).
The second time... ah, well, that was special.
You see, originally I hadn't planned to be there overnight, on account of the fact that I had an event on Sunday (I eventually went, but due to the aforementioned snow, I got there far too late and missed a third of it. I got the main bulk, though). But I decided to stay, because:
a) it was snowing
b) it was her birthday
c) it was getting late
d) it meant another night in bed with her
So we had sex again, natch. This time, it was sleepy but for a different reason; we were knackered, presumably by wading through snow and watching a film about a goldfish who turns into a girl (which seemed perfectly acceptable at the time). But it was her birthday, and I was all up for it. In fact, I'd dispensed with all determination and good intentions by this point. I was going to make her orgasm, and that was it. It was already written in the stars. Not that I could see many stars while my head was clamped between her thighs, but I knew what they were saying. Of course, it was also difficult to concentrate on star-speech while I gently-but-also-oh-so-forcefully guided her through her orgasm with my tongue, as well as while slididng my hard penis into her soft folds, but I think I managed.
I forgot all about stars when that happened, though, because at that point I noticed something that I'd never experiences before. I was having perhaps the closest sex I've ever had.
It's not exactly intensity that I'm talking about here. With TD, sex is always intense. But physically closely. She was under me, comfortably, and there was a duvet lying on top of us (don't judge, it's cold!). We were merrily having sex - as you do - but there was probably something to do with the angle, the position, the duvet, or the stars (or all of them), which made me feel very... close. I'm hypersensitive anyway, but this time, I could feel everything. I could feel her legs wrapped around mine, her tits pressing against my chest, her hair in my face, my hand around her neck, her inside walls moulding themselves around my cock. Everything, twice as much. I was very aware of her around, and under, me. I just felt - as I said - close. Very fluid, very connected. Close.
I've always liked birthday sex.