Sex diary: a mood for tenderness and a packed polyamorous week

An ordinary Tuesday, the most unremarkable day. What's sexy about a Tuesday?

I crawl home from work, kick off my sandals in the hallway and watch K. in a house tank top coming over for a hug. Hugging a partner you know everything about — the smell, the softness of their skin, the texture of their hair... perfect after a hard day.

Sometimes you're not in the mood for sex, but you are in the mood for tenderness. Before falling asleep we hug, warmly and for a long time, I slowly kiss their lips, their neck, and that's how I fall asleep, my face buried in K.'s chest, my leg thrown between their thighs.

If someone took a photo of us, we'd look like a chubby octopus, but there's so much acceptance in these inelegant hugs. And love.

I don't know what's fuelling my upbeat mood more: only a couple of hours of work, ovulation, or "oh god, I'm writing a diary for Purpur, it has to be interesting!" — but tonight we're going to a club.

Sex is a many-layered thing. It has everything at once: tenderness, mutuality, sensuality. But today I want lightness, passion and brightness.

I danced right on the stage. Below was a crowd wrapped either in hookah smoke or in the haze of a thoughtfully switched-on smoke machine.

Then a girl in a white sundress was dancing next to me, and her perfume reminded me of the perfume of the person I had my first kiss with. A mix of freshness and something sweet.

After the magically scented girl came a dark-haired guy standing with his back to the stage.

I leaned down, ran my hands over his chest, licked his earlobe and straightened up again. Wipe my memory (and everyone else's who was there!), but leave me his stunned-happy look — I'll use it to boost my self-esteem in my spare time.

Fleeting touches that meant nothing but gave me so many emotions: tongue to tongue, someone else's fingers on my ribs, my palms in someone else's hair.

In the taxi I lay with my head on K.'s lap and thought about how much I love them. In our relationship my freedom isn't restricted in any way, and I'm given care when I need it.

Catching up on sleep and thinking over last night. I love the aftertaste that follows an encounter, and I don't want to drown it out with anything just yet.

At different times I've put different things into sex. It was a way to assert myself, a way to be liked, a way to get pleasure. Then it became a way to feel the world more deeply. To get to know myself. To feel the body — my own body and someone else's. To get emotions you can only get there.

Late in the evening, closer to midnight, my phone lights up with a notification from a friend: "Want to stay over at mine tomorrow?"

Blinking sleepily, I type my reply: "Promise I won't get any sleep."

Oh, damn. That was so f*cking amazing.

I arrived, we had a heart-to-heart in the kitchen, and I changed into his T-shirt. Naively pretending I'm not here for sex, I get into bed with him and reach over to kiss him.

I love fucking when I'm sleepy. My brain doesn't generate anxiety, every movement is more relaxed, there's more pleasure.

Quick kisses, no tongue — I want to get to the "main course" sooner. I'm on top, my favourite position, slowly lowering myself onto his cock. The pleasure centre in my brain just explodes. He grips my hips and helps me with his hands. He changes the pace, moves me like a toy.

I stop him for a second, kiss him long and wet, and whisper against his lips, "that was f*cking amazing, so f*cking amazing". There's simply nothing more coherent in my head.

He lays me on my stomach, I lift my hips, he enters me and presses me into the bed. He covers my mouth with his hand; I can't move or control what's happening. And I simply dissolve into my sensations. The feeling of helplessness turns me on. He pinches my nose shut with his fingers and lets go a second before I start to suffocate.

We switch to missionary, and he plays with me, changing the pace. First he goes all the way in and stays inside, then fast but shallow, then slow but all the way... Soon he speeds up, pulls me close, and I hear his breathing falter. He stops, puts me on my knees, pulls me in by my hair and comes in my mouth. His cock throbs on my tongue, and I love it.

It was completely uncomplicated, completely shameless, but I feel so good, and I'm out until the next morning.

I don't like waking up away from home. I feel empty — it's what's left of the shame that was instilled in me. Shame for being in polyamorous relationships, for getting pleasure from sex without love. Or maybe yesterday's sex lacked the cosiness, the acceptance and the awareness that I'm loved? There was pleasure, there were emotions, but there was no feeling that I'd been given love. That happens sometimes. I don't want to relive it in my head — that kind of sex doesn't warm you, it only turns you on.

I come home very tired and can't find the energy to talk it over with K., but I can see that I'm understood. I love falling asleep together with K. Because we always exchange love. And, like a conditioned dog, I'm used to getting this dose of love before sleep. I love massaging K.'s hands, I love hugging, I love that today I — an upset little grump — am getting my back scratched. I smile.

In long-term relationships (at least in ours), over time there are more and more feelings and less and less sex. We still express our love through touch, we touch each other a lot, kiss a lot, but we rarely get as far as sex. Desire no longer appears out of nowhere, all by itself, the way it used to.

It's raining outside, it's already noon, and we're lazing around in bed. At some point we switch the film to porn, discuss the actors... and our touches start to crackle with electricity. I'm on top, I can feel my wetness running down my thigh. K. fucks me with a finger, but just one, and doesn't touch my clit. It's torture. I beg for another one; K. calls me a slut who wants a big cock, torments me, makes me repeat that I'm a little slut. Finally K. lets me come, I help myself with my hand while K.'s fingers are still inside me. I feel myself squeezing them with every wave of the orgasm. A f*cking amazing morning.

This is the last day I'm keeping notes. A packed week — usually, within our relationship, full-on sex happens once a week, and with one of the metamours (a funny word, like a cat came up with it) once every couple of weeks, or even once a month. That's more comfortable for me. Sex in the relationship is usually about feelings, about pleasure and exchanging love, while on the side it's about passion, adventure and lightness. I like this contrast, I like being able to try both.

Today I feel, as my girlfriends and I joke, "fucked out". There's a lot of sensual experience to digest.

Usually I masturbate a couple of times a week, and it's like reliving the impressions of recent sex, but right now I have no desire at all. A state of complete satiation — I want to take my mind off it.