The Aerial Feminist

“Are you…studying me?”

My eyes, which I had reflexively closed in the throes of my passion, had managed to flutter open, and they landed on the face of my (relatively new) partner. The expression upon it contained the expected lust, but even more noticeable was a look of intellectual curiosity, one I’d seen on him in sexual situations before. It was like he was cataloging me.

“What?”

We’d been dating for a few weeks at this point, and our chemistry was undeniable. We were entangled on my couch, with me in a disheveled state of undress and him knuckle-deep in my cunt.

“Something about the way you look at me when we’re fooling around, it’s like…like I’m an intriguing science experiment to you.”

He laughed, kissed me, and asked, “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” I breathed in a reply that was more sigh than word, as at that moment, he began again with his machinations below my waist.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Something about the way he carefully watched my reactions to sexual stimuli, as though I were a particularly complex test subject in a lab, took hold of my mind in a way I never anticipated. My fantasies were consumed by the idea. It was just so simultaneously hot and unnerving – but unnerving in a good way, sparking that mix of shyness and vulnerability and mild discomfort that my submissiveness sometimes brings out in me.

It’s not that I’ve never had a partner pay attention to the things I like before; I’ve had multiple sexually attentive and intuitive partners throughout my life. However, this is the first time that I’ve felt like a partner had a full-on mental catalog of all my preferences and responses, a database of sorts that he is constantly updating when he finds a new interesting feature.

I’m a librarian by education; my day job involves a lot of data management. I’m no stranger to cataloging and archiving information. I had just failed to experience being the information, until now.

This seemingly data-driven and scientific approach to my sexual pleasure could so easily feel cold and detached, like he has zero investment in me aside from fulfilling a stimulus-response checklist – but somehow, it doesn’t at all. He cares so much about my enjoyment that every motion of his hands, every subtle change in my breathing, every swirl of his tongue, every escaped moan and sigh is noted, sorted, and filed.

Three months have passed since we began seeing each other, and I’m still not used to it. I still find myself blushing and averting my gaze when I see That Look on his face, the look that tells me any attempts to disguise my desire will be utterly futile, that he knows my body as well as anyone in the world, myself included.

It’s the nerdiest, most romantic form of consensual sexual objectification I’ve ever experienced, and I only find myself hoping that his mental database has an infinite capacity.