Great Pleasures: Sex

The pulled pellet lever of the orgasm -- sometimes as mechanical as blowing the nose, sometimes rippling with the revelations of communion.

Of objects the universe offers to touch, the skin, hair, membranes, and fluids of the beloved glide superlative under fingertip with a shared complexity of ecstatic intention.

Primal symphony of sensation, in the moonlit tangle of white sheets, each limb, each patch of tingling pelt, each foreshortened feature sounds its singular timbre, acing its solo before fading back into the homeostatic sonata.

Await the moment when the solitary veils of flesh can waver in an enmeshed filter of consent in spurts of I am noticed, I am seen, I am not an invented self but merely another solidified, dissipating soul aching to contact the nigh-forgotten all.

Any summary of intercourse's fancy must include the transgression of taboo, imposing sanctimonious sanctions on sex in a holy ritual of Tantric denial, withholding release to exponentially increase absence eventually fulfilled.

Or perhaps merely a necessary cathartic sigh of daily tension, craving the laying on of hands in a bower of physical security.

And often too easy, I'm easy, wasting broken connections of unshared fluids, tomcatting through the crypts of the night, yowling at the moon.

The comfort of the familiar or the virgin inspiration of the new, the resonances are greater than can be conceived.