Intergalactic Deep Space sometime in the Future
Straczynski’s bloody, damnable “frictionless sheets.” He’d had them freight teleported to us and we’d used them right away. Let’s just say the exciting IDEA of “frictionless sheets” is an intriguing one, the actuality of using them, however, not so much a good idea.
Maybe only “half”-frictionless, you intrepid inventors out there?
It was a bad idea because we still have the basic physics of our universe. That a head banged against a resistant wall or headboard will have a reciprocal reaction, as Sir Isaac Newton pointed out so long ago—an equal and opposite force—and, once again, I and my partner, without any tangible drag holding us in safe place, rocketed off our nuptial bunk with its slick, new sheets.
Into the far bulkhead, in an unseemly tangle of bruised arms, legs, and one dented, twisted male appendage. The latter of which is deeply cherished by us both, and upon which a sweet kiss on its “boo-boo” would not make it better. It made it all worse, in fact.
We laser disintegrated the damn things, put the two thousand count Orion silk sheets back on the bed, and sent Straczy a nicely worded wedding gift thank you text. We decided text was best since we couldn’t be certain to keep our voices steady in an audio, and he’d ask about the black eye I got hitting the bunk’s foot chest, as we’d sailed into and tumbled over its hard sides.
More on frictionless. We’ve been having a word game between us about what does and doesn’t have “too much friction” or “not enough friction,” and then we thought we’d try a more physical game; especially, since leaving our honeymoon cabin might force us to explain over and over that he’s not beating me and that we flew off the bed in a manner that wasn’t fun.
All of THAT is a conversation we do not want to have with strangers. It’s bad enough the room service cabin crew already suspect something; but every couple, who doesn’t come out of their cabin is always the butt of jokes.
Frictionless sex, my sore eye.
That’s when we came to our mutual conclusion and decided to try Tantric frictionless sex, to lie dovetailed together in various positions and not rub or bang or strike or thrust or any other violent sounding verb in clean language or unclean slang. Dovetailed together, like wood bits lain together and made the stronger for it.
Plus, doves are good and peaceful, right? With all that soft cooing and mounting of each other on the park pathways in spring.
And so, we lay in calmness as the ship’s engines hummed and the thousands aboard buzzed about their business or fun. I held him within me and we gently focused on how we truly felt together, without striving, without impressing each other; one holding the other safely snug within, and one reaching outside self to deep inside that comfy other.
Now you’re thinking “that’s not interesting,” heck, “that’s not even sex,” but it is, as we undoubtedly discovered that his body recognizes my body and mine recognizes his, in a sort of soft, “Hey, how ya doin’,” sort of way.
And so linked, and without action-packed, friction-filled, enthusiastic athleticisms, there was sweet bliss inside of us, just lying peacefully together.
And a tenderness and poignant sensitivity that friction never reached.
Think. Friction makes calluses on the body, and clearly on the intimate parts as well. Desensitizing them. Desensitizing us. It’s the difference between a soft stroke or patting tap of a lover’s lone finger tickling sensually on the inside of your forearm and the hard, repeated poke of that same finger on that same one spot for five freaking minutes.
Try it. Soft and gentle is so much better, and lasts longer, too.
No head banging, no expensive, embarrassing toys and unmentionable accessories charged on your credits or gotten from well-meaning, giggling, well-intentioned friends.
Just the intimate bliss of quietly, gently filling each other and holding each other; of being wholly aware of our own and each other’s body; finding that a shared whisper or daydream can send our blood rushing to heat our conjoined parts and commingled hearts, more than any fire-driven friction, as our parts, of their own accord, melded and reshaped to fit our new lovemaking.
Flesh seeking flesh at its own speed and inclination.
Warmth without friction, heat without fleeting sparks, blazing hot but so quickly blowing out cold.
Cozy. We are very cozy together, as one.
Straczy called with an urgent warning to “be careful.” He had a broken arm that still needed another protonucleal healing. And his lovely, red-haired Straczette was not presently acknowledging his existence in any fashion. I won’t say what SHE injured when they flew off their frictionless sheets and out an open inner balcony porthole, but there was physical pain, and hurt dignity was also involved.
He’s sleeping alone for a long while.
We laughed, a long time, not at them specifically, but, they’d laser burned their sheets, too.