The energy and force of sex is representable of an innate drive to possess, which is stoked by not having, not possessing. Who has ridden their partner like a horse?. We pull on the bridle, and dig in our heels. We writhe and we fishtail, breathing noisily, showing off the workings of our naked bodies, breathing, spouting, to the whole damn world.
There is a virile masculinity to my cock. It looks strong, and lithe, when it is erect. My entire body is in my cock with its accompanying balls. I want from my cock only beginnings. Endings are not for me. I have a bitter-sweet relationship with orgasms. We are each orgasmic beings. The sperm remembers how it got to the egg. It didn't stop to play around. It drilled its way into the egg.
Orgasm kills the play of sex. For ten seconds your body is elevated with a flood of oooohs and ahhhhhhs, then your penis becomes a slug. A big fat slug that slips out of the vagina, covered in all that goo, and your balls are quivering like fresh tofu in a bag. So orgasm is the death shot to sex.
It's really twisted, this sex life. So I resist orgasming, except when I am masturbating.
There is something sexy about pegging out your laundry in public. The crucified shirts, the lace panties, your tit catchers, the sheets where you lay your naked body to rest, even the towel that dried your intimate creases, all on display for the neighborhood to see. Intimacy shared without you, with total impunity.