I want a man to exhaust me.

I want a fuck that feels like a workout, that leaves me strained and gasping and covered in sweat. I want to shower away not just the scent of sex but the burn in my muscles.

I want to pant. I want to peel off my clothes and toss them aside and then lick the sweat off you. I want a physical, energetic, exhausting fuck.

Sexual energy

One of my exes used to take me running. Not how you’d ‘take’ someone to the theatre or for a treat, but the way you’d ‘take’ a child to the dentist: kicking, screaming, and sulky enough that you worry their angry stare might burn hate-holes in your soul.

He’d nudge me into putting my trainers on, donning baggy shorts and a faded t-shirt, and together we’d run. Sixty seconds in I’d be rasping and wheezing, by ninety seconds I’d want him to die. At two minutes, when we slowed to a walking pace, my heart hammered with wobbly, joyful pride. I was hot with arousal for this guy who was physically faster, stronger, and more determined than me.

By five minutes my heart went back to hammering murderous rage. By ten: love again.

Pant, wheeze, hammer, run. His feet pounded the ground in front of me as he streaked ahead – all muscles and sweaty hair and lean, sexy energy. I lurched after him, chest and feet aching and mind blurry with the speed at which I switched between love and hate. By the time we got home, hot and dripping and achy, I always settled for the latter: love, desire, arousal. I was tired, but I wanted him more than I’d have wanted him if we hadn’t run.

I hated the activity, but I loved that he exhausted me.

An energetic fuck

Lazy sex is fun. Lazy everything is fun. Sitting naked on the sofa chain-wanking all afternoon is fun. But as a person naturally inclined to laziness, I am constantly battling my indolent inner self. When I’m idle for ten minutes I worry it’ll last forever.

Relaxation is like superglue – a quick brush with it and I’ll be fine, but an extended session and I might find myself stuck there forever. I like spoon-fucking so much that I worry I’ll never get back on top. Never drop to my knees. Never bend over in the hallway and pull my knickers to the side so we can fuck in front of the mirror.

So I want to do things – energetic things. I want to run until I sweat and write until my brain hurts and fuck until I wear myself out.

Push me

I want a man to exhaust me. To come hiking then demand a blow job when we reach the top of the hill. To take me somewhere I’ve never been, then suggest we find our way home through alleys where we can furtively touch. To push his hand onto the small of my back and tell me I can arch it further. I can take it harder. I can hold it for longer.

Because I can. I know I can. And there’s a great value in someone who says “You can do better than this. You can run faster than this. You can be more amazing than this.” I want a man to make me pound the streets and pant and wheeze and wonder whether I could try even harder than I already do.

This isn’t about having a controlling partner who tells you what you need to be. This is about having someone who challenges you in ways you enjoy – who’ll teach you new skills or introduce you to new things or – in this specific case – physically push you to the point of tiredness so you can tumble into bed together aching and tingling with lust. This is a very specific, physical interpretation of ‘the thrill of the chase.’ Playing and sparring in a sporty flirtation that makes my knickers damp and my heart throb. Watching you run, or cycle, or dance, or do any of those things that I’d usually hide from, gives me something to try for. I’ll cycle faster because I want to impress you, dance so I can partner you, run because I desperately need to catch you.

I want a man to exhaust me. Because when all’s said and done, I can either sit and wait for you, or I can run after you. And right now the latter sounds much more fun.