Virgoans are deeply disturbed by disorder; they can make no sense of the raw material of life until it's processed into their own highly fabricated view of the world. This disability is most obvious in the bedroom, or the bathroom (which is the other locus of Virgoans' emotional life).
Thus Virgoans want their partners to stick to the script, that way no one will pull a muscle when trying to improvise a response. Virgo's wild sex is like a game of padda tennis - with specific service rules, a defined playing area and, when the finishing bell rings, a winner. (Was it good for you?)
When Virgo's sexual persona was formed, at a very early age, it incorporated whatever happened to be around at the time - and these random elements endure, like insects trapped in amber.
Thus deep in any Virgoan's heart there are active oddities that have to be catered for. But it's very hard trying to cater for them because the slightest deviation from their deviance makes them indignant.
"It wasn't a latex apron, it was a vinyl one!" they may protest. "I had to wear a diving mask instead of a gas mask! She brought along a ping- pong bat instead of a hairbrush! He wanted me to kneel on the floor, instead of stand in the corner! Good grief, where's the fun in that?
The fun, as it happens, is in catering precisely for these requirements; it happens so rarely for Virgo that the gratitude is genuinely spectacular.
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