"Have you been having sex?" I asked of a particularly busty friend. She'd not had an easy year, having broken up with (and gotten back together with) her (ex-)boyfriend several times. I found myself mediating at several points, and eventually, she had gained a new boyfriend at university (in fact, to my knowledge, they're still together - I have no way of corroborating that right now, though...). All our successive conversations seemed to involve her boyfriend in some way; me being me, I assumed that they'd been having sex.
I wasn't wrong.
As she told me, rather enthusiastically, they'd been having rather a lot of sex. Everywhere. Several times a day. A number of theories presented themselves to me: her new boyfriend was very good at sex; she was good at sex herself (and I suspect she was); they were both good at sex; he was actually an alien sent to Earth to research human sexuality; she was just trying to fuck out the bad memories from her tempestuous previous relationship. Whatever the reason, my particularly busty friend had spent most of her time underneath her particulartly beardy new(ish) boyfriend. I genuinely couldn't blame them.
"Have you found it difficult recently?" was my next question. "Like, a lot wetter than usual?"
"You're talking about sweat, right? Because you sweat a lot during sex and in this weather you're already sweating a lot?"
"I wouldn't call that difficult."
Maybe it wasn't the right adjective. I'd noticed it too; having sex in a (relatively) small room with no real ventilation - in the height of summer (when I'm usually hornier anyway) - I'd managed to generate a lot of sweat. And this, in turn, led to a little more lubrication on the skin. I'd noticed the soft hiss of skin against skin turning into more of a wet slap, a slight loss in the amount of friction during a vigorous shag, beads of moisture running down bodies and faces turning red - without the usual exertion required for them to do so.
The reason I asked my particularly busty friend if she'd found sweaty summer sex difficult was that I'd been finding it quite hard to stop. I'd never had summer sex before, and was fascinated by exactly how wet you could get (and how far you could go) before inevitably giving in to the heat and exhaustion and
Not being able to stop having sex doesn't really present itself as a problem, I'll grant you - and that is probably why my particularly busty friend got confused and left to make dinner (or possibly get taken from behind up against the kitchen counter - either seemed to be an option). The problem to which I was referring had happened the previous weekend, when I'd been determined to have as much sex as possible in a very short period of time (with credit to my girlfriend, who must have had a very resilient vagina), and had ended up with a severe case of dehydration and a UTI to boot - drinking an entire bottle of Sprite in an attempt to regain all the fluid I'd lost.
Jesus H. Corbett, I'm a fucking idiot sometimes.
Last night consisted mostly of naked cuddling and sex which wasn't actually sex - both of us were far too hot for any shenanigans and, in any case, I had work this morning (although that's usually not a valid reason for not having sex, but still...!) - and occasional trips to the bathroom which were mainly an excuse to walk past the open window. It wasn't, by any stretch of the imagination, a bad night (hooray naked cuddling!); but it was certainly a warm one.
Tonight I'm sleeping in the fridge.