More than once, I've come across the complaint that the need to ask for consent isn't sexy. I disagree, and in my current story-in-progress, I wrote a scene that is all about consent:
"May I?" he whispered.
I nodded, and he brushed his lips against mine.
I stretched up on my toes and kissed him back, then drew a sharp breath at my temerity, but his expression was one of grave delight.
"I forgot to ask," I said. "I'm sorry."
He touched his fingertips to my cheek. "You may, you may, you may again."
Three more times I kissed him.
"You may," he said again, his voice low and rough.
"You may," I replied.
And so we progressed, kiss by kiss, touch upon touch, throughout the evening and the night, until we lay entangled in each others arms, having taken love and given it in return a hundredfold. Even as I lay drifting into sleep, I knew I would not forget Taavi Matlik, nor this night. He was as tender a lover as I had imagined, and with him, laughter came easily, and passion followed soon after, a quick flame burning hot and bright, until it ebbed to a warmth that eased us back to laughter and then a silence that fell soft and slow. Poised on the edge of sleep, I could only think that he had fitted to me, in body and spirit, so perfectly, it was as though he and I had been fashioned for one another.