I’m always a little partial towards sex with a Taurus. If we’re on a date—or if I see you at a club—and I learn about your zodiac being a Taurus, I’m already smiling on the inside. Whether or not we hit it off in the long term remains to be seen, but for the moment, I can see the dynamite explode, the bed break, the noises awaken the neighbours… and maybe the entire building… I can see that happening.
There are some things every zodiac sign is naturally good at. And while, there are a lot of things that you are great at, sex is what makes you a phenomenal romantic partner. There are three zodiacs I’ve sexually overdosed on (and I’ll do it over if I must); one of those happens to be you, Taurus!
It starts with the effortless charm. That’s also what makes you the jerk that you are; but, one who is hard to ignore. The charm gives way to very subtle but ever-present chivalry and courtesy. And that’s what makes you so damn irresistible. You have a way—with your words, your touch, your eyes and, well, your moves.
You know how to treat your partner, right from the start; the very first Conversation. The subtle hint in the ‘Hey’ is all one needs to fall. But, that’s the trick—to not fall for you. It’s the hardest part to go through with because it’s the easiest thing to do. And, yes, you can attribute a lot of it to the sex. Sex with you is a different game altogether. And you don’t even call it sex. You’ll humanize it; romanticize it, even if it’s just for the night. You’ll call it love.
It starts with the conversation, it moves on to a date and we can feel the chemistry cackling. Two mature individuals, sitting across a table and engaged in candid conversations about what we do and what we think; meanwhile we can feel the tension build. The day turns to night and a table turns into a bar. The conversation never ends and the energy is only ever increasing. By the end of the night, we take it as it comes. You take the lead without letting your partner even know it. And you’re on your way back—it’s either your place, or mine. And you’re not yet halfway there; but you can’t seem to keep your hands off each other. The driver is speeding; maybe he’s just embarrassed; or maybe he’s enjoying the adrenaline rush… with a view to the backseat. It’s quite the head rush.
After what feels like an eternity, the wheels come to a halt. You’re at your apartment; you’re holding hands like teenagers as you lead them up to your bachelor pad. You don’t even remember when you reached the bedroom, or the bed. You just remember the touch of skin—close, closer, never close enough. Your lips never leave each other’s and your hands cannot stop caressing their skin. You’re gentle, yet urgent and they know it. You know how to hold them and draw them to you, maybe carry them and literally, sweep the person off of their feet. That’s it. Clothes are off; there never was a need for them, anyway. Lingerie is just a thin veil you can see through. The veil is always lifted from everything. And so it will be tonight.
Foreplay was made keeping you in mind. Foreplay was meant for you. And your lips can do all the tricks; your lips probably invented them. It’s skin against skin—moving slowly and urgently. The friction is heating things up—body and room temperatures, alike. The bedsheets are crumpled somewhere underneath; at some point, it will be off the bed, just like your legs, or their head, or both of you. It’s your head down, then, theirs and everything is upside down and yet, the world seems to be just about right. Eyes closed, it’s like nirvana. It’s all heat and sweat and girth and thrust. It’s all push and pull and grab and scratch. And the moans are endless and honest. You need to remind yourself of your volume; but, secretly, you’re enjoying the carnal instinct. You tell them what you want; they tell you what to do. You want them to make you want it; even beg for it; then, come and get it. Across the room, against the wall and then, on the study table near the French window that overlooks the street. It’s quiet and cool outside. But, it’s aggressive and hot inside. The air-conditioning seems to be malfunctioning. Or the heat is too much.
You take your own sweet time—getting each other over the edge, over and over again. With each surge of pleasure, the intensity only increases. Forever, or not, it’s going to be a long night. But who wants it to end, anyway?
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