The Weekly Mindfuck: Eye Contact

I'll be honest with you—I used to be really afraid of eye contact during sex. Not afraid afraid, but uncomfortable. Partially because as a woman, people have told me my whole life that I'd assign meaning to sex when there was none, and partially because that kind of intimacy—intimacy beyond intimacy, really—made me squirm. I could spend hours psychoanalyzing myself and probably pull out some pretty deep realizations, but I'm imagine it's all much more simple: To be observed, speculated in such a way, made me uneasy. I felt exposed under the scrutiny, even if the gaze was a benevolent one, and wasn't sure if I liked what they were seeing or wanted them to look so closely. In any case, what's on my mind now is when that feeling stopped. 

I suppose, in a phrase or a sentence, it felt like the convergence of affection and arousal. Many of you probably know what I'm talking about—that first moment something that's not erotic rouses you and brings you to the physical brink that coincides with the fuzzy, foreign feelings you're having. From my previous vantage point, it didn't make a whole lot of sense. Eye contact, conducted outside the realm of seductive, sultry glances, isn't really a sexual turn-on all by itself. It's not an orgasm cue, it's not a kink, and it's not naughty or taboo. It's just . . . warm, I guess. In every way. 

I couldn't tell you I like it, exactly. Not yet. But that has far less to do with any actual joy it brings me (which is substantial) and a lot more to do with the fear of free falling in such a way. It's hard not to wonder what awaits you at the bottom, particularly when you have a history of nasty falls that splinter and scar. 

But in time, I know it will change. The fear will evaporate and be replaced with the sheer thrill of the fall. And then, when he catches my eye and holds our gaze, I'll grin. 

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Feel free to contact Colette at [email protected].