Fucking Yes To Fucking To Jazz

I’ve had a lot of great sex to a lot of different music. From slow and sticky stuff along to Glass Animals, to power pumping with Cyprus Hill; I always thought I appreciated what music brought to the bedside table. But, it was a background noise; a piece of the atmosphere. If a song looped thrice around, I may not have noticed.

But, jazz? The first time I fucked to jazz, it felt like the notes were extra hands in the room. A grip around my hips swaying and shifting me in my seat.

“M” and I had started sharing and discovering more jazz together; both of us having a love for it, and a curiosity to dive in deeper. I had made a playlist for us, one I had played so many times before — to write to, in the car, to soothe myself on a nice long walk.

The experience of these same songs on my list whilst riding “M”, was both mind, and body altering. The soft sounds so tenderly caressing, lightly kissing me across the skin of my spine. Almost like a light breeze through a thinly cracked window.

I naturally drift to harder fucking because, well, I genuinely love to be deeply thrusted into. But, I realised that I can use it as a defense too, an intimacy barrier. For a few years I didn’t really enjoy or allow kissing during sex. And I hardly ever allowed a partner to take their time with me. I would often do gentle as a tempo change before reverting back to raw shit.

“M” really opened me up to some soft loving. This made “M” and I slow-dancing between the corners of his mattress to smoothly layered jazz a sensory overload. In sex, it’s like if you’re given all the right ingredients, the dish makes itself. Each step flowing into the next.

I was above him; one hand holding his chest down, the other pushing off of the wall in front of me. My eyes shut and mouth gasping as I slid back and forth along his dick. This music pouring into my ears and vibrating through me, and out of me, and onto him. We were in constant grips, we each pinched on chunks of skin. And shared quick bites and prolonged nibbles. And pressed our lips into each others’ warmth.

We made our way through that long list of lengthy tracks. We made our way through one another. Beneath me, behind me, beside me. His hands taking turns grabbing onto my waist to pull me lower, then my ass to spread me wider, and then my lips — reaching his index finger to the back of my throat and pulling it back out slowly in competition with my mouth sucking it in.

In a mix of sweat and spit, we owned that dance floor for what felt like hours. The band cheering us on the whole way. Their tune always encouraging us to continue, to push further, to push deeper. And damn, he did. He blew all the way through me like a saxophonist, but needed no instrument to get me singing tunes.