If you want sex, have sex.
Have sex with a person who wants to have sex with you and have it when both of you want it.
Don’t plan it. Don’t delay it. Don’t suppress it.
Don’t perform it. Have it.
Stop caring about whether you’ve shaved or not.
Or whether there’s a zit on your back you wanted to get rid of before the person you desire sees you in the nude.
Stop worrying about the taste the garlic bread you had for lunch left in your mouth or the sound of the moans you can’t keep in when they touch your sweaty body.
Stop worrying about how that body looks to you in the mirror. It’s not what they see.
Turn off the movie that’s playing in your head and switch to reality. If you want this to be art so badly, see it as the most colorful painting there ever was. Dashes of paint in lust black and sperm white and bruise blue and blood red and labia pink on a canvas made of human skin, in a broken frame of shaky bones. There is no perfection in sex. None in you. None in them.
You’re not acting out a scene from a goddamn novel. You’re writing your own.
You’re not looking for flawlessness, you’re looking for pleasure.
You’re a driven, instinctive, hungry being, not the lie of softness and beauty around it.
Feel them, don’t gaze.
Move intuitively, not predicted.
Laugh if you have to, stop if you need to.
Be safe, but not mentally.
Devour the moment and let go.