So much advice found in conventional sex columns and guidebooks talks about the need to set the right atmosphere in order to soothe your partner into an intimate act. I remember reading my parent's copy of The Joy of Sex, flipping through the rich illustrations, but always getting stuck on the descriptions of the ideal mood. The right temperature (not too cold, but not sweltering either), the right sounds (some classical music - Baroque - would do the trick) and always the perfect light (candlelight if possible). The last tone received exceptional stress because too much light might bring out your partner's insecurities about their body, thus weakening their arousal, however too little light might shunt the erotic power of seeing your partner's face in the throes of ecstasy.
For years, as i caroused in the sexual bramble along with my fellow pubescent mates, the importance of light stayed steady in my focus. I was convinced that achieving the proper illumination would ensure the optimum amount of joy and pleasure (little did i know that this sex book was intended for married couples who needed to "re-kindle that spark" and not horny, teenagers). I'd funnel my hard-earned, adolescent wages towards purchase of special lightbulbs that ensured a coital hum or a cacophony of candles that sprayed our naked, young bodies with warm effusion.
As i matured, i continued to employ these meticulous light shows, but discovered something about them that negated their purpose: they did nothing for me. In fact, they did the opposite. If i was attracted to the girl, it didn't matter if a hundred fog lamps were raining down on us, and the same went for pitch darkness, my arousal sizzled either way. Paying so much attention to the mood lighting made the sexual act feel stilted and choreographed. As i continued to develop my erotic palate to reveal a large erogenous zone dedicated to the objectification of my partner, fixating on the need for light in order to observe her orgasmic facial expression desisted.
Randomly the other day, the memory of my once formidable obsession over light levels materialized in my head. I've long since abandoned that fixation, and have replaced it with a rather intricate process of crumbling, collapsing, re-arranging and erasing of my partner's identity. Whether she is bound into an unrecognizable arch of flesh, she is wrapped into a cocoon of plastic wrap and duct tape, or is turned into a shiny hood ornament for me to play with, the common denominator is the disappearance of the face - as an orchestrator and receptor of expressions.
I'm still capable and quite desirous of face to face physical intimacy, there is a different soul to those encounters. But, i cannot ignore the power and sway the act of transforming this beautiful woman i love into an identity-less object whose very will rests fully in my hand holds over me. The metamorphosis grabs my insides - in one gigantic, crunched up fistful - and pulls them up into my chest, swelling it with a kinetic tornado of addictive energy that i can't get enough of nor ever want to relinquish.