Squirting the Air

Until very recently, I preferred squirting the air with my sperm rather than fucking a woman.  Doing it myself was better than dealing with women: there were fewer negotiations, fewer impediments, and less duplicity to endure (on both of our parts).  And when I was alone and masturbating, my sperm somehow felt thicker and my cock more constricted as I spurted.  Plus, I controlled everything; I never had to accommodate myself to another's desires, another's timing, or fears. 

            And, in sharing sex with women, I found that everything seemed to happen too fast (even when it didn't), with too little authority in either of us.  There was too much concern about what the other person was thinking.  I often thought of her, and enjoyed this, but this made sex stand  too removed from me.  With our complicated grapplings and strategies, sex felt arcane—whether it was straight-ahead sex, or receiving a blow job, or simply spurting when she gave my prick a last final snap of her wrist, and I seemed to be witnessing, from a great distance, my sperm arching, unimpeded, through the air. 

            But now, like an old mystery being solved, I've discovered  with my new lover that a woman is superior to my experienced hand, and better than my sucking myself off too, which I also used to do.  Because when I'm inside her, inside my lover, with me pressing as much of myself as I can up against her and into her, when we're together and doing the same thing with each other, I can comprehend finally that I will never be. . .unaccompanied. 

            We've been together for two months, and to remain inside her is all I need: I feel like a glowing tub of butter which has been sitting in the warm air too long.  I'm always slowly, inexorably loosening, settling.           

            And I'm up hard, perpetually.  It seems my cock won't ever lie down if she's near me and naked.  When I masturbated I often began to go soft as soon as I stopped pulling on myself—but now, even if I draw myself out of her before I come, and talk to her, run my hands over her, talk to her some more, or lick her, or stand up from the bed to get massage oil, or to simply stretch my legs—no matter how long I take, I find that I'm still hard, still glowing.  Is it because I know she's waiting to grip me again?  Even when I'm not near her, going about my day, it still feels as if she's clutching me.  Every aspect of her—not just her cunt or her mouth, but her concern, her care, and her fears, her thoughts—all are clasping me tight, preparing me.  (And starting a few years ago, whenever I sucked my own prick, though I loved my sperm hissing into my mouth and dribbling down my chin, I got a sore back.  After all, I wasn't seventeen anymore; in fact, I'm fourteen years down the line from seventeen, and not nearly so flexible.) 

            But now, it's my lover I'm occupying, not me—she's the one who squeezes my cock and makes it burst.  And, amazingly, it seems as if this is happening whether she's near or far, for I feel as if she can make me come even from across town, or from across the country; it's her soft, ever-present body that holds me, wets me, warms me, includes me, no matter where she is.   

            And her fulsome, 3-D body is everything that entails her, even her history, her childhood, her past boyfriends, her past traumas; I don't keep my body anymore, she does, with her own body.  And she has a very precise recall of my body.  She has told me that if she were blind-folded, and I stood lined up with nine other naked men in front of her, and she mouthed each one of our cocks, she'd know mine instantly.  Is my cock particularly big, or small?  Not at all.  It's just mine; she can differentiate it.  She, however, never forgets any man's prick.  There are lots men occupying her, all of her past lovers, still, as well as her future lovers—and when she tongues the tip of my cock she feels how round and smooth the heads of all men's cocks are, how satiny and flaring, yet how completely varied!  "The ridge separating the head from the shaft on your cock, it's so prominent," she says.  "More prominent than most men's.  My clit loves it, to ride on that ridge.  When I suck you, my mouth loves it too.  A big hot knob in my mouth. . ." 

That she's had many lovers, it makes me feel strong and gives me a legacy, a sense of her past.  She said to me once, proudly, "I've rolled many men's balls on my tongue.  With a man's balls in my mouth I'm tasting the very center of a man." 

When I masturbated, I often ignored my balls; they hardly existed for me—but with her careful attendance to them it's as if I've discovered my body again.  Still, this discovery is done through her, not me.  And after finding out about her past lovers, how every lover got to feel her tongue on his balls, I revel in her doing the same to me.  With her robust tongue, she likes to push my balls into my thigh, compressing them, making them feel grotesque, swollen, as if they're too big, a hindrance; then, with them in her mouth, she talks to me, mumbling, laughing, and I feel her saliva dripping out of her mouth onto me.  Her saliva has coated so many agitated balls! 

Often, when she sucks me, I watch streams of saliva trail from the corners of her mouth.  Pulling her head away from me, she likes to stretch her saliva out a foot and a half between us; she grins, lolls her head, then spools her spit back in, or lays it over my thigh and licks it up, her lips smacking. 

Though I feel much stronger and more secure now that I have her with me, it's not power I've discovered in me—instead it's weakness.  I desperately require her hands, her mouth, her cunt, so I seek her out, full of fear that the next time she might say no, or that she might no longer love me.  It's my weakness, my neediness, that makes me hard for her, and oddly, that makes me strong enough to seek her out again and again, and not feel weak in doing so.  Funny, how that works. . . 

            To come to a woman with your cock, and show her you want her (and to hear her say yes, and believe it), has made me human.  Though there have been other past women who I'm sure welcomed me, accepted me, I never quite believed it.  Now I've found a woman who actually receives me.  And with that I am very weak, very needy, but I don't care.  A man's greatest fear has been taken away: I don't have to separate myself anymore.  It's that simple. After I've been taken in by my lover, I feel, perhaps stupidly, that no one in the entire world will ever suffer; nothing has to happen now, for I don't have to do anything, to accomplish anything.  No one does.  No one anywhere has to achieve anything, when my cock is melded in her.  I'm part of this new pleasure, this new not-happening, this new weakness and endorsement. 

           

Such anarchy and innocence comes from our greatest fears being soothed.  And such peace too.  To have another person we are sure of, it's very frightening, very soothing.  In her acceptance of me, all the world's turmoil is there, waiting to come out, or recede.  What will it be?  With her word yes, her open body, the world is quieted, for now.  There is nothing better for us.  Yet for most of us it will never happen.  It is denied.  We don't have anyone we can concede ourselves to.  Even for me it could change; I might lose her tomorrow in an car accident, or she might leave me, for no good reason.  What a raging, horrific spectacle if that were to happen!  Rage turns the world too, as well as loneliness and devotion.  How stupendous my rage would be if I were alone again.  Yet when I'm surrounded by my lover, when I'm pressed against her, or in her, I lose all my fear.  For the moment no one will leave me, and though I am very soothed, my thoughts never wander while we're fucking, never stray, like they often did when I masturbated.  My focus is soft, supple, strong. She focuses me—it's not me who does it, it's her.  I feel gone, very far away, and yet I'm as attentive and included as I'll ever be. 

            I remember when I first found out what it was to be a part and parcel of my new lover.  Is was the summer, we'd known each other for two months, and we were in bed in her apartment, the newspaper spread out in front of us as we worked the crossword puzzle together.  We were naked, the covers thrown off us, and as we worked, asking each other for new words, my cock very slowly stiffened and bowed up.  It took about a half hour, with me not even aware of it, until finally there I was, raised up between us, with her giggling.  I don't know if it was her being naked or our simply doing something together, but, as always, I grew taut whenever she was near.  Before doing the crossword we had been reading the paper, turning pages, separating sections, and this had made her hands dry.  When our puzzle was mostly done (a few blank spaces left, words we couldn't find) she got up to put lotion on her hands, with her saying over her shoulder as she left the bedroom, "You remain at attention, do you hear?" 

            I lay back on the bed, listening to her fumble in the bathroom cabinet, my erection lying on my stomach like a shivering, newly-caught fish.  I wanted badly to be in her hands, or to be inside her, yet it also felt as if my cock had never been out of her; I felt abandoned, and I felt her with me too, grasping me. 

            Long minutes went by before she returned, and there I was, with my straining cock.  She hadn't found the lotion, and she acted as if she were mad at me.  With her hands on her hips she stood next to the bed and said, "My cream's not there.  What have you done with it?" 

When she said that I felt I might come.  She hadn't touched me, but I was going to squirt, for she was accusing me of losing the lotion and somehow threatening our relationship.  (And also threatening our pleasure—for though we never used the lotion when we fucked, I realized I was hoping she might come back and apply the lotion to my cock). 

Climbing back onto the bed, she asked me again where the lotion was, teasing me.  "Did you take it from the cabinet to masturbate?" she asked.  

For some reason I decided to play along with her.  I told her, "I stole your lotion," even though I had not. 

She seemed to know I was lying, but she said, "I don't think I want to attend to you any more.  You absconded with my lotion."

I said, playfully, "Abscond, that sounds like a good word for a crossword puzzle."

She stood up from the bed, walked out of the room, and I went after her—for I suddenly discovered I was scared of losing her, and as I walked down the hall I seemed to have no balance in my feet.  What was going on with her?  I felt too terribly and suddenly lonely, my cock rising too tall out in front of me, too desperate.  Had I misread her?  Was she actually mad at me?  Would she take me back? 

She stood in the living room, naked, looking out the big sliding glass door onto her balcony, and when she saw me in the reflection, she spun around, laughing, and started squirting her lotion at me.  She had been holding the bottle in her hands all along—squee, squee with the pump, shooting lotion out in long white jets at me.  Now I understood.  Days earlier she had started calling her hand cream Jerk-Off Lotion after she discovered I used it on myself sometimes when she was gone.  With the lotion slick and shiny on my cock, it had duplicated what I felt whenever I was inside her.  I hardly ever masturbated now that I knew her (she was so vehement in wrenching the sperm out of me that I seemed hardly to have enough in me to do on my own), but occasionally, with her away for her job, I would succumb.  One day, only an hour before she was to return, I had let myself into her apartment, to be there when she walked in.  I had headed to the bathroom to take a piss, and suddenly, there in the bathroom, with the smell of her lotion and the smell of her insinuating itself into my nose, I had to jerk off. 

It had been very disturbing that she had found out about me. "I smell my hand cream," she said with a smile when she got home, and stood over me in bed.  She was sniffing the air, her keys still in her hand.  "You're being unfaithful to me," she snorted. "You like the lotion better than me. . ." 

Amazing how she had known.  I felt adulterous and frightened; I felt wonderful.  When I told her I why I had used the lotion, she said to me, "Now you need the real thing—not some-thing from a bottle," and she began taking off her clothes and slapping at her bare skin, running her hands up and down her body as if she were applying lotion to herself, and there I was, my cock up again, striving for her, my fear and embarrassment gone.     "Never again," I cried out as we fucked.  "Never will I find a substitute for you. . ." 

"You're right, buster," she said. 

But now, with her standing naked in the darkened living room, trying to shoot the lotion as far as it would go, she was teasing me, threatening to desert me, leaving me only with the lotion.  "Is this what you want?" she kept asking me.  "Huh?  Some lousy lotion?" 

            And the lotion, it looked just like sperm as it arched out and splattered on the bare wood floor.  The cream could be anything: it could be the feel of her cunt around me; it could be the smell of her skin; or it could be my own shooting sperm.  Full of delight as I watched her continue to splatter the lotion on the floor, I danced up to her, then pretended to be struck down by the lotion when it hit me in big, cold splats.  I fell to the floor, with her standing above me, still laughing and pumping.  Then she fell on me, wiggling, smearing the cream around on me with her breasts and belly, while still holding the bottle and squirting me. 

The sound of our sliding and smacking skin echoed in the apartment; we began rolling on the floor, leaving big splotch marks behind us on the wood.  With our doing this I knew why women love to be squirted with semen—such terrific attention is directed at them, and it's such a hot, sticky mess.  (I liked it, too, when I used to squirt myself in my mouth or on my stomach; semen is very warm, almost hot when it hits yours skin or wiggles into your mouth, and then when it cools it gets quite sticky and its scent seems to get stronger, more pungent.  And it wasn't just me and my new lover that liked to be coated in sperm, but several of my earlier girlfriends had asked for it, coaxing me to spatter them; I hadn't wanted to do it because I was embarrassed at how it reminded me of my squirting myself, though maybe I was resentful too, because these women were somehow stealing from me something I did on my own. . .which is why I never told any of them of my sessions alone.  Still I couldn't resist them, despite telling myself as I splashed on them that my solo masturbation was better than doing it on them.) 

But now, in the living room with my new lover, I enjoyed  our both being smeared, and I didn't mind letting her see.  I knew she liked it too.  "Is this enough come for you?" she was asking as she squirted me and then ground her breasts into my chest.  We both were thrilled, almost squealing as we rolled and fought with each other and fouled ourselves.  Here was the mess of sex, of menstruation, of shit, of childbirth, of death—a mess that lovers know so well, and feel so well when they're fucking. In fact, women with warmth and life in them, women who love to fuck, they enjoy a mess because they enjoy life. . .they enjoy oozing secretions and discharge much better than men do. . . 

As we squirmed on the floor, she kept me pinned, blasting me with the lotion like some bully tormenting me.  She was all limbs and haunches and swinging breasts, and she was lit up from the streetlight outside; fantastic shadows and curves washed across her as she batted my hands out of the way and continued to squirt me.  And my hard-on was still with me, still wobbling, still waiting, despite our wrestling.  Then she lifted herself off me and grabbed my cock.  She gripped me hard and started pumping my cock up and down, just like I did when I jerked off—and I was ready, swollen, aching, ready to go, and she knew it, so she pushed my cock down flat against my stomach, pressing hard, and out I spurted, a thread of sperm slithering across my stomach, then another stronger trail leaped up onto my neck and face.  She was giggling, whispering to me, "Go ahead, squirt yourself, instead of me."  

            I was still coming, and I hit myself with shots to the chest and stomach.  "Oh, your cock, it's so dangerous!" she teased.  "I've got to point it somewhere else!" but she kept me pointed at my face as I shrieked and tried to turn away. 

When I was done, we were quiet.  In the light we could both see I was covered with sperm and lotion.  We began laughing.  

            "You forced it into my face," I said, feeling the sperm sliding on me, rolling down my cheeks and neck.  "It's like when my big brother beat me up and made me eat dirt." 

            Eyebrows up, , her face full of challenge, she said, "I'll make you eat dirt. . ." and she climbed off me, turned herself around and stuck her ass in my face.  Looking down the length of me, looking between us, I saw her nipples brushing at my waist, her chin at my knees.  Her asshole was illuminated by the light from the street and it looked like a tiny, puckered cunt.  "Go ahead," she said.  "Touch it, open it."  But I was afraid.  I didn't want to.  I'd never touched a woman's asshole. 

            But then with her finger, she scooped some sperm off my stomach, snaked her hand around and dabbed it over her asshole.  "There you go, a little lubrication," she said. 

            She was fierce, determined.  Obviously she had done this before.  With caution, hesitating, I poked the sperm into her, and she opened up a bit.  When I wiggled my finger a little deeper in her, her butt shook in reply.  Trying to pull my finger back out, I found her gripping me, trying not to let go; with my other hand palming one of her buttocks I could feel the muscles in her buttock tightening as she held me.  Still keeping her asshole clamped on my fingertip, she grabbed my softening cock, drooled a line of spit onto my cock and took me into her mouth. 

My cock and my finger were in her at the same time.  Without thinking, I pulled my finger out of her asshole and she groaned loudly, her back sagged a little, and she sucked at me harder in her mouth.  Between her cheeks she was sweaty and slippery; only my own scent of sperm came from her, with no accompanying smell of shit, which encouraged me, for I was still afraid of her asshole.  Trying to be brave, to show her I wasn't scared, I wanted to touch my tongue to her, to taste her, but I couldn't; it was too much for me.  Plus, it would only be my sperm I would taste. So instead I poked at her asshole with my finger again, and she opened up a bit more.  She hissed, and her butt began to move in and out.  I steadied her, then slid my finger in deeper, her grip on me reassuring me, though she was groaning again as if it hurt her.  With her body grasping my finger as well as my cock, I suddenly had an even stronger feeling that I would always be accommodated, and esteemed; no one would say no to me now.  No one would ever be mean to me again.  To be inside her like this was the only solution, the last solution. 

            Deeper and deeper I went with my finger, up to the knuckle, and with that she hissed again, took her mouth off me, and suddenly with her hand she grabbed my foot and angled it to her mouth. . .and bit my toe!  She put my big toe in her mouth and bit on it, hard.  It hurt, just like I'm sure my finger hurt her, but the pain just seemed to make my finger, and my toe seem even bigger and tighter in her (and my cock too, which was free, out in the cold air and squirming on my stomach).  It was absurd, what was happening, which only further convinced me that she was clasping every inch of me, securing me more completely than I'd ever been clutched before.  How had she learned this. . .this diabolicalness?  Certainly she had done this to some other man—but it didn't matter; in fact, it was better that way.  Everyone should be seized like this, with methods learned from another! 

            Then she took my toe out of her mouth and said loudly, as if it were a declaration, "To be alive, you have to taste dirt, and cause pain.  Go ahead, taste me where I shit; put your tongue there."  She groaned, her waist sagged a bit, recovered, and she said, "But first put your finger in deeper."  She added, shaking her hair, "After this, you'll never want to jerk off by yourself again!"      So that was what this was about.  We were both laughing at her philosophizing, and her lecturing me.

She said, "Others are pleasure, not yourself.  Others, with warm spaces in them, with shit in their bodies, and pain and pleasure.  Be alive, and get wasted on me!  I can fuck you all the time, every which way, and wreck you. . ." 

She was very confident, and suddenly very wise.  So I quickly pulled my finger from her, and listened to her agony, felt her sag on me, take a deep gasp of air and shake her hair.  Then I poked out my tongue, wishing she could see me do it, see my bravery, for her face seemed so very removed and far away from me.  Still afraid of what I was doing, holding back from actually touching her with my tongue, I saw a thin sheen of film around her asshole—it was my sperm shining in the light, along with tiny glittering hairs matted down in the sperm.  I stared at the sperm there, hesitated, and from my still-extended index finger I could smell the faint odor of shit.  The smell, it was on my finger now, it was no longer just in her: I was contaminated with the dirt and the pain she had just talked about. 

Bewildered, repulsed, I still kept my face away from her, my tongue out.  She pushed her ass closer to me; my head went down onto the floor, and she slid herself backward to settle her cheeks on my face.  Very close in my face, deep in my nose, I smelled cunt, and sperm, and shit: it was packing me in the face like an avalanche, a mud slide of dirt and earth.  Now everything was right here on top of me; there was nothing else to do but be pressed down like this.  And I gagged.  I was too deeply buried, too surmounted.  Yet she and I, it felt as if we were no longer a couple—not two striving people who had formed some loving relationship by being intimate with each other, or respectful and decent to each other during the day, (to do the crossword puzzle together, for instance)—instead we were now completely finalized.  I comprehended what it was to want nothing to happen to me, to not seek, to not hope for another, but to simply bind and be bound.  Yet this realization in me also contained its very opposite: to be lonely, and this struck me with a new horror.  Never must my loneliness be allowed, not after tonight! 

Still, I had to escape.  I had to get out from under her.  I pushed off, my elbows banging on the hard floor, with her yelping in surprise.  She was mine, to shoulder me down always, to bury me always, yet I had to get away.  All my life I had just wanted to be grasped, confined, but this was too much.

I rolled onto my side, my eyes shut, and heard her rolling over too, gasping in surprise, with her wrist bone, or her knee striking the hard floor as her breath was expelled from her with her sudden tumbling. 

           

But, after that, after our session on the floor, I wanted to pierce her (or plug her—which was it?) again, in all orifices, with my finger and my tongue and my toe.  Or so I thought.  Still, though, I was a bit afraid, wondering if that was really what I wanted, or she wanted. 

            Waiting three days, full of fear that I was demanding too much, I finally asked her one night to drape herself on me again, upside down, like before.  Again we went to the living room, which in its openness and bareness and hardness, seemed the right place for this.  We lay down side by side, reversed, and began playing with each other's toes, biting at them, giggling ner-vously.  So many parts of bodies to put in our mouths, in our bodies. . . 

My cock was half-hard; I wasn't aroused, but I was full of anticipation, full of hope to find. . .to find what?  Whatever it was, I told myself there was no search involved, and no loneli-ness.  Because she would do this to me, wanting my tongue in her ass or my toe in her mouth, because she was the one who had initially suggested it, there felt to be nothing to find or pursue, and no failures to cringe at: a body not my own was stretched alongside me, its knees and thighs in my face.  With the body reversed like this it became much more a body, and only a body.  Look at it here—I could examine her knees, see how the skin on her kneecaps was whiter, slightly blood-drained; this was from her kneeling on the hard floor moments before.  I could also see her long, slightly ugly toes, with her bulbous big toe, which reminded me, in an instant of embarrassment, of my cock.  My lover's face, it was gone—it was far away, down by my feet.  Here was a body, and upside down like this, it was not a body I had ever seen before.  Instead it was a body I could plug or pierce, and it could do the same to me.  This was thrilling to me, and frightening.  And my soon-to-be-reeking finger, that was thrilling too.  Washing it off in the bathroom later would also be exhilarating and awful.  To escape this body, yet to know I never could, for it was foundation, essence, and it was all around me, interring me, vouchsafing me. . .              Still, I was afraid to proceed.  I ran my hand up her leg, against the grain, feeling the fine hair on her legs grate minutely against my hand.  Then, reminded of other prickly hairs on her, in her, and to stop my fear, I rolled over onto my back, pulling her on top of me and instead of sucking on her toes I drew her midsection down to my face and began rooting in her bush.  I couldn't suck on her toes, or let her do the same to me. I couldn't look at her asshole or delve into it, at least not yet; instead I would do this: raise her clit, smell her arousal. Something familiar.  She had washed before we started, there was no smell of sperm or sweat between her legs.  I began licking her, while lifting my hand above her butt and skimming over her asshole with my fingertips; both her cunt and her asshole were very tight, unopened and dry.  It seemed the single body we both were, the body we entailed as we lay, reversed on the floor like this—it was not heated yet, not seeping and stinking.  That was good; that made me feel better.  I had to go slowly, to open her up bit by bit, and to work up whatever courage I had.  She did the same to me—licking at my cock tentatively, with her fingers bouncing my balls gently. 

Her clit was hidden, like the rest of her; her smells and her wetness seemed masked or cloaked from me.  Though in our earlier session I had felt as if she were burying me, now it felt that she was buried, and I needed to bring her forth.  And, ever so minutely, she began to seep, like a fruit in a bowl that starts, over the days, to settle and soften.  The hard floor below me vanished, dropped away from me.  It seemed I was resting on her, instead of her resting on me; I was an astronaut, with no up or down.  Her clit was a stiffening little button on my tongue, and my cock had grown in her mouth.  We were so similar, the way our bodies were changing.  And her finger pressed into my hips and the sides of my ass.  We rolled onto our sides and her finger went into me; it hurt, her finger in me.  She was poking down in me, entering me—and this was the first time for me.  No sperm on my asshole to lube me, either.  I was doing the same to her, pleased at her opening up to me, and how moments earlier she hadn't been open.  With both of our holes plugged, top and bottom, and our clit and cock attended to by a warm mouth—it felt as if we were being gently obliterated by each other.  I seemed to possess no head or feet, nor did I have a cock: I was only a tub of warm fluid that was being slowly and continually stirred, roused, as well as being plunged.  I was draining out, yet the fluids in me, the water and sperm and shit and blood, seemed to be lifting in me. . . 

Then, as if hearing my thoughts about my fluids, she took my cock out of her mouth, pushed her nose against my balls, and said, "I can smell your two big sacks of sperm!  I can smell your shit too," and she delved deeper into me with her finger. 

I cried out in pain.  Her prodding finger seemed to have extended through my anus into my cock, making it lengthen still further out away from me.  Really, her finger seemed to be inside my cock.  It was too shocking, what she was doing to me, how it felt as if she were literally what made me hard; she was inside me, stuffing me, yet piercing me too. 

Soon we might be coated with us; we could leak out, or spew out onto each other.  For the first time, another person's body  was inside me (with the exception of a woman's tongue, which had been in me before, but never like this).  How far would she go?  Our stench would batter us.  Our penetration would wreck us.  Really, what was going to happen?  I felt I would not know how to masturbate anymore: I wanted to release everything—my semen, my piss, my shit, onto this persuasive body that had so directly effected me—yet where did the body end and I begin? 

And I came, long before I wanted to.  We both were laughing, shaking our heads, as if saying, "Oh, no, what did you do that for?  You let yourself out. . ." 

It was failure, my sperm squirting all over her lips and jaw.  Failure of what, though?  What did I want to do with her with my body?  I didn't know.  I only wanted to be held by her in the best, most secure way possible, that's all.  My release felt to be incidental, unimportant.  I had come far too soon—but maybe it was better that way.  Maybe that's what I wanted, to get away from this all, from what she seemed to be suggesting with her finger in me, allowing herself to so thoroughly penetrate me.  I told myself I would not do this again with her—being upside down like this, with the ugly smells and the sense of vertigo, as well as the confusion and commingling.  It had to end.  It had ended, for I had come; I had separated us. 

But the next day I wanted to perform it all again—almost as if my not wanting to do it demanded that I do it.  It felt like some bizarre math equation, pointing me to a solution.  I waited, though.  Somehow, more time must pass.  We hadn't talked about what we had done, though because I felt to be taking my lead from her, if anyone should talk it should be her.  She was the wise one, the grounded one, the securing one. 

Another thing held me back too: I didn't want to push into her ass with my cock.  I feared that.  She hadn't asked me, and I was afraid she might ask, if we continued with our experiment.  And for me to suggest it to her, was wrong.  There simply was not enough space in her, and certainly too much pain for her, or for me, to see it happening, to hear it happening. 

Then, three days later, it happened, just like that math equation coming to its. . .fruition.  Rolling her eyes at me as we slid naked into the bed, and as I began playing around with her, teasing her by gently poking my finger in her mouth then trying to draw it out, with her trying to keep it in, she asked me, "Hey, Mr. Fuck, I know you've fucked a girl in the mouth, but have you ever fucked a girl in the ass?" 

When I told her no, she bent over and spit on my erection, making it slick and shiny, and then she turned herself around and tipped her ass up to me.  This had happened far too fast, too effortlessly, as if she had been planning it, and had done this many times before. 

            After some hesitation, I told her I didn't want to do it, and she only shook her head.  "You do everything else. . ." 

            I told her I was afraid to hurt her, and she laughed and said, "But you're all mouth now, these days, in your desperation. Even your prick is a mouth.  You should learn to eat even more.  To develop a more hearty appetite. . ."

            That was amazing to hear.  My prick, a mouth.  What a thought.  My entire need for her, it was a mouth! 

            So that's what I did, doing her bidding, getting some KY jelly from the bathroom, and then the two of walking to the living room, as if we knew that was the place.  "Let's do it on the floor," she said, after we were already kneeling on the floor and she was reaching behind herself to palm my erection. 

            She positioned herself for me on her knees, elbows on the floor, with her butt in the air, and I knelt and very gently placed my hips to her cheeks, as if pantomiming what we had planned, and giving her a chance to change her mind.  But she pushed her cheeks into me, and I quickly lubed myself up, then began to. . .to louver myself into her.  I did it a fraction of an inch at a time, with her butt feeling like a soft pliant beach ball that I warmly pressed to me.  "Don't stop," she hissed softly, evenly.  "I mean, don't hesitate—keep pushing in like this, slow, but don't stop, and don't speed up.  It's all perfectly balanced right now." 

Once I was half in her, I stopped and held our position, not wanting to move, and she hissed loudly with her breath, a long hiss that scared me.  "Keep going," she grunted. 

            I did.  Then my balls were flush against her, with the hair on them burring, as if my balls were being stroked by an invisible hand.  Steadying myself, feeling tighter than I thought possible, I informed her, not knowing if I were serious or not, "We should this way forever," and she arched her back, repeated my word forever, shook her hair and pounded her palms lightly on the floor. 

            Her tightness was so extreme, so close, I felt as if I would never want anything again, never oppose anyone, never feel I was missing anything.  With her ass flush against me, she seemed over-whelmingly compatible with me; her whole midsection was compacted in my hallowed-out stomach—it was as if she were just an extension of my belly.  My hands were resting on her sloping back, her arms were out straight on the floor, her breasts pressed into the floor.  In the living room, in front of the sliding porch door again, with the street light coming in, we were where we could see so well, where the whole world could see us too. 

            If she never moved, I felt we could stay this way all night, wedged in tightly like this.  But because I wouldn't move, she thought I didn't want to hurt her.  We remained motionless for a long time until finally she said, "Okay, you can stroke, if you want." 

            But I didn't want to.  

            She pushed herself up on her elbows, and the angle changed, and she was even tighter, and crimping me—but I wanted her down, breasts and elbows on the floor.  She felt like a big erection; her whole body was stretching three feet in front of me.  I felt I would never go soft: up flush like this, she would never allow it.  And I would never come, never deflate and lose her.  Women would never seem threatening or demanding again—there was nothing to do, no emotion to find, no desire to satisfy, no need to be hard.  I was snug. 

            So she started moving, instead of me, sliding herself back and forth on me.  Each time she pulled away from me, I smelled a strong whiff of cunt rise up between us.  Very faintly I smelled shit too.  I wondered, again, if I liked the shit-smell.  I didn't like it, yet I told myself it wasn't so bad; the two feelings, I decided, could live side by side in me. 

I watched her move.  She was sliding steadily, gingerly on me, making a barely perceptible whimpering sound.  She was so very shrewd the way she knew the different ways men and woman fit together.  Had she ever done this before?  I was sure she had, though I didn't want to know about it.  But thinking of other men, of course I appreciated her more.  And all women knew how to do this; I was convinced of it.  She, and all women, knew much more than me. 

            With us together like this she told me, "We should never be apart." 

            "Never," I said.

            Nodding, she added, "Before we even knew each other we shouldn't have been apart!" 

            I agreed with her, but we were both laughing because what she said was both so true and so ridiculous. 

"Yes, why should we have ever been apart?" I asked her.  "It's a crime. . ." 

            "A crime," she repeated.  "So why are men and woman separated from each other most hours of the day?  We should be attached always; we should have been born together." 

            I laughed once more, amazed at her, for she didn't usually say things like this; it sounded romantic, yet very philosophical too.  "Why is anything separate?" I asked, hearing a bit of desperation in my voice. 

            With my hearing me say this, and being in her like this, with it feeling so beneficial, so tight, I grasped her hips and stopped her movement on me.  "Whenever we have sex, I hate it when we start moving, when we start stroking," I said.  "For it's the beginning of the end, the end of us inside each other.  I'll come, and then I'll go soft and fall out of you." 

"I know," she said distantly, as if not really listening to me, and starting up again. 

Yet she knew what I was talking about.  It's very sad,

what must happen to men and women: we can't stay continually connected.  We lose each other when we come.  But maybe the separation after our coming is what will give us to each other next time?  There's always a return.  There's both the hope to never move, to never (as my lover says about sex) "get some friction going," and there is also its opposite—to initiate the end, to undergo your vehement, annulling orgasm and gasp for breath and feel wrecked. . .so you can start again another time, or so you hope.  

And then, having these thoughts, I went soft.  I don't know if it was my thinking of losing her, knowing I might never be held this tight again, that this might be last time for us—for what would happen tomorrow?  What would?  Even if she never left me, never dumped me, she might be taken away from me, she might die.  That was my greatest fear.  Something completely out of my control would wrest her from me—a car accident, a chance meeting with another man, or even my own sudden inexplicable disdain for her, for some stupid reason.  There was even my own death to consider.  But not if my cock stayed in her always.  Not then.  Absurd, but true. 

I was wilting in her.  Actually it felt kind of good at first: there was a little less crimping between us, a little less tightness.  Almost a soothing connection.

But it continued, and I felt hateful toward myself: it was me that was causing this, me and my fears.  And I knew there was nothing I could do about it.  It had happened before, though never with my new lover—and never, significantly, when I masturbated.  I never went soft. 

Neither of us said anything; we just let it happen.  She knew, in her wisdom, what was happening.  Every woman has felt her man go soft in her, or seen him fail to rise.  And she thinks it's always her fault, because she feels the same way as me, that she's losing the best connection to another person.  Women are so invested in others; women, that is, who are warm and actually like the man they're with.  Prostitutes aren't so sorrowful when you fade on them, because they don't have the connection to you. I know, having been to them repeatedly a few years ago, and having lost my erection once or twice.  The lack of consideration in hookers can often be compelling—it can be the very thing that sends you to them, though if you're in the wrong mood and you fail, a prostitute's unconcern only makes matters worse, makes you more dead and defeated, and, oddly, more determined to see another prostitute. . . 

My lover, when I finally fell out of her, she simply rolled over onto her back and gently lay her outstretched wrists on the hard floor, not making a sound.  She didn't try to rejuvenate me, which was right of her.  Just let it happen, let us lie there—and that was best. 

I stood up.  "I want to wash myself," I said, and headed for the bathroom.  Now it was cock that was soiled, not my finger.  I was even further joined to dirt, to pain, to ground.  But my cock had still gone soft.  And the time before, with my finger in her ass, I had come too soon. . .    When I was done washing, I walked into the bedroom, hoping to find her there, and she was.  She was lying in bed, on her side, smiling, her cheek resting on her open palm.  Thankfully she was still naked, and outside the bed covers.

"Why be separate?" she said softly, sadly. 

Yes, I thought, why ever end with anyone.

"Let me lie on top of you," she said.  "Face to face.  No movement.  I think you'll like that." 

That's what she did, lying on top of me and not talking, not moving.  "My security blanket," I said, though it was dumb, but I had to say some words.  I felt ready, after my leaving her for the bathroom, to say a few words, and I felt proud for her, proud of her for letting me take the time to speak, and for keeping her body bare and open for me. 

I said, "You know, the first time, when I had my finger in your ass, I smelled. . .I smelled the aroma of shit.  And then with my cock in you, it was the same thing.  It was disgusting, but I was also sure because of what I'd done that I'd never be separate from you, from anyone, and that my cock would never go soft.  Can you believe that?  It was like you had such a grip on me.  And yet," and, my chin in my chest, I tried to look down between us at my flat and fallen cock, "yet look what happened." 

With her breath in my ear, she said, "But it's true, really.  You'll never go soft.  You know why?  Because you're covered with dirt now: with shit, with come, and with pain."  And she squirmed very slowly and heavily on me, as if trying to make herself weigh more, press down on me more inexorably.  "Feel it?"

Was she talking about herself?  Was she the shit that covered me, and the pain?  That's not what I had meant. . . 

"Feel it?" she asked again. 

"Feel what?" I asked. 

"You're rooted now, because you've had shit on you." 

She was wrong.  I wanted to tell her that, but with her weight on me and her words in my ear I felt my stiffness already starting to teem up between us, as if demanding not to be left behind when we had started rubbing against each other.  My hard-on, it seemed to have happened to me, not even needing me—though I was sure she hadn't been talking about my cock when she had said, "Feel it?"  Or had she? 

            "My, my, my," she said with an ironic lilt, shifting her hip slightly to accommodate this new thing burgeoning between us. 

            "My, my," I said, repeating her words. 

A couple hours later, she asked me, with me hard inside her, and her still lying flopped on top of me, exhausted from fucking, "Do you want to stay this way all night?"  We had been connected the whole time, with me never having come.  Though I was exhausted too, and we had barely been moving for the last fifteen or twenty minutes, I hadn't given up, giving her the smallest of thrusts every now and then in order to stay up in her. 

            I sighed, and wagging my head at her, I told her, "Of course you know I want to be in you always. . ." 

            She laughed and said, "It feels like it." 

            Giving her another little thrust, I whispered, "I don't want to come ever again.  Just want to be like this." 

It was a joke, a bit of my joy at having returned to her, having never lost her.  Yet I really did hope to keep myself stationary, to prolong the pleasure, my new pleasure, the pleasure of having someone always bound to me, or to have someone holding me (and what was the difference?).  That's when I told her, "I'll save it," and I gave her another tiny thrust.  "I'll never come." 

            "Oh, you have to come!" 

"Never.  I'll stay in you for days, and my balls will fill up, fill up completely." 

"And leak out of your ass!" she laughed. 

            The horror of coming: you were wishing, as you came, that your spasms would continue indefinitely, that your sperm would continue to spurt—but already, far too soon, you could feel it ending, diminishing.  And with that you knew you'd lose your grip on her.  Your cock shrivels, and disengages you. . . 

            Then she said,  "So, let's try it.  Try to stay connected all night.  We can try to sleep with you stiff inside me.  And as we sleep—" and she gave me a thrust of her own, "we'll keep ourselves joined.  We'll know what to do, even though we're asleep."  

            She was right.  I knew that sometimes when I had stayed inside her for hours, with us talking to each other, then fucking, then talking, back and forth, before finally coming, it almost made her comatose; she, the wise, tough, experienced woman, turned into a limp dish towel when we were done.  The next morning, usually after more fucking, she was a lazy, absolutely compliant house pet, not even wanting to stretch and get out of bed.  Pulling her from bed for breakfast was difficult, and with her refusing to sit up or stand I found I wanted to fuck her again, but not come, just slip myself out of her and then slip myself back in, and make her dumber and dumber. 

            I said, teasing her, "No, you don't want that, for me to be in you all night.  You won't be able to get up in the morning. . ." 

She laughed, nodded her head. 

            But to stay coupled all night—maybe we could do it?  The horrified look in her face sometimes, when I pulled out of her before I had come, when I wanted to prolong things, or get the massage oil!  Real horror, real loss for her, even when I did it slowly.  The first time I had done it, our first evening in bed, she had been very upset.  But she found I would always come back to her; there was always more.  There was always more attention to her.  Finally she had told me, "When you pull out you have to tell me.  I don't mind, but tell me." 

Whenever I had pulled out of her, I hadn't wanted to upset her, or to show her what I had felt when I was alone, when no woman had been gripping me tight.  Not at all.  I had just wanted, by removing myself, not to end with her.  Yet whenever I had done it I reveled in how I knew exactly what she was feeling at that instant, because I'd felt it before, felt the same thing in me: the fear of loss, how you're sure you can't ever keep hold of someone, keep someone part of you.  To see her face react—each time it brought home to me that this was what we all feared. Sometimes her face would seem to be in physical pain as my cock left her.  There was this tremendous emptiness suddenly befalling her; it looked as if she were being stabbed, pierced, though she was being emptied.  Maybe that's why she wanted me in her ass—to plug her as full as possible.  Or maybe she wanted the pain in her ass to assure her she was full, and that I was very present. Like me, she was afraid. 

That was when I wondered if that was why people fundamentally enjoyed pain.  Did pain show us more than anything how we could never be separate from one another?  How our bodies were all the same?  Did pain give us each other, by revealing to us that we, along with everyone else, despite our wish to preserve our separate bodies, we nonetheless desperately needed our bodies to be clung to by another?  Does more and more separation create more need for pain, for sharing?  Is pain a big clasping, a tenacious fastening-hold?  I mean, when I saw her face react to my pulling out of her, I knew—I knew I was alive.  Or was it she who was alive, hissing in frustration?  I couldn't tell.  It was always confusing in those moments.  Just like when she stuck her finger in my ass, or wanted me to taste her asshole—it was just another kind of connection, another basic union that she (like me with my pulling out of her) wanted to witness, to confirm. 

            But putting my cock back in her, it was always the rejoining, the reconfirming.  It was our life, together, a life not of the future, or the present, but of memory, the oldest memory, the memory of being inside, an authentic part of another person, of mother, of wife, or of God, or nature, whoever or whatever created us, whoever made and protected our astonishing bodies and thoughts.  This entity understood us and reassured us, when we fucked.  It knew what we wanted; it knew we wanted to be together.  

"Come back," she sometimes cried to me when I pulled out.

But I wouldn't, at least not at first.  I'd say, "There's no hurry.  Let me caress you, or oil you, or talk to you." 

She was furious—at me, and furious to get my cock back in her, in her cunt, her mouth, her hands.  Anyway she could, she wanted to get me back in her, just like I wanted to be in her. 

In the morning, after a night of fucking and coming, I'd do it, pull out of her after starting up with her—though sometimes, really, I couldn't find it in me to come.  My energy was gone, and my sperm felt gone too, used up, though I could always get hard.  I'd actually leave her, leave her apartment, without coming, telling her I had my whole day ahead of me, and meaning it, and not meaning it, and then visiting her that night, at the end of the day, telling her I'd missed her and my cock had been hard practically all day, and my sperm was refilling me, and wanted out of me badly, and that my want never decreased for I was always hoping, always waiting, always stiff.  "Look at me," I would say, showing her my erection.  "And my balls are full for you. . ." 

            And sometimes she did the same thing to me, teasing me by  threatening to take herself away, like she did when she abandoned me in her bed and ran out into the living room, saying, I don't want to attend to you.  I remember that, and then our rolling on the floor, messing each other, covering each other in goo.  I believed her, believed she was leaving me, like I'm sure she was convinced, for a half-second, I was leaving her whenever I pulled from her. 

All this emotion, all this pain and delight in us, despite the fact that I was meant to remain in her—it was dizzying.  Always I will lose her; always I will find her.  As long as I'm losing her, out of her, then I can find her.  And in the end, what's the difference between the two?  I don't know. 

But I've found, being with her these months, despite my being cruel to her, despite thinking my cock was some blessing that would continually return to her and bludgeon her with reconnection (and I had felt the very same way with other women)—I've found that I'm not nearly as selfish now as when I masturbated and told myself it was better, when I fucked myself, when I was so full of me, too close to me, really, to enjoy my life, or another's life.  How little I've masturbated in the last months! My holding my prick, and beating off, all alone, or drinking my own come—it was absurd.  Now, though, I have someone, someone who I can always return to, and wonder how it is that I was ever away from her. 

So, we tried sleeping through the night with us joined together.  With no final words, we simply fell asleep, exhausted, with her on top of me.  Of course I didn't sleep deeply, and was visited by many dreams (which I didn't remember), and I had a vague sense throughout the night of being weighed down, and of moisture on me, and difficulty in breathing, and when I first awoke there was this massive, distant weight on me, a very disturbing oppression on me, as well as the smell of sex and sweat and shit in my nose.  I could smell skin too; it was not my skin, not my hair, not even the smell of my breath, though I didn't know that at first.  All I felt was that everything was very close to me, yet still very vague and undifferentiated. 

Then I awoke fully.  And she was draped on me, I discovered, with her head on my chest, positioned right under my chin, and our skin was sticky with the hot morning sunlight crashing down on us.  I was scared—for an instant very shocked, horrified.  What was this body doing on me, pressing down on me? 

            And between my legs it hurt.  My lower back hurt too, and my legs, my calves.  I was stiff everywhere in my lower body, from not fully sleeping, and being weighed down.  Not a pleasant sensation at all—but my cock was stiff too, I realized.  Painfully stiff, as I remembered it back at age fifteen when it seemed so tight and hard I actually thought there was something wrong with me, that if it didn't wedge itself in a close warm place it would split apart at the seams. 

I was in her still.  Somehow, during the night, half-conscious, I must have instinctively kept thrusting at her, showing her my need for her.  And she had been gripping me, keeping me in, including me.  We could be asleep and still our combining demanded us, leaving us with our sticky bodies which we discovered still sucked at us the next morning, with her opening her eyes in astonishment as she realized I was still in her.  "We are the best!" she cried, grinding down on me with her belly and stretching her arms out and jamming her palms into the headboard. 

            Would I ever, after today, ply my cock in the cold empty air and make it spurt by myself, with my hand?  It no longer seemed I had enough magnitude, enough presence in me, to make me come on my own.  Instead, that should be left to her, who shielded my cock from the vacant and gaping world by letting me imbed myself in her always. 

            With her palms against the headboard and lifting her hips partially off me, she looked down between us.  "Take a look," she said, then thrust herself down on me, once, bearing down hard, then pulling back off so we both could see.  "I'm still wet too. This is how men and women should be: wet and hard, all night."  She stared at me, wide-eyed, and added,  "Really, why not?"    

            She began to lift herself up and down on me, bouncing on me, doing it almost whimsically, saying, "Wheeee. . ." as if she were on an amusement park ride.  She stopped suddenly, now very serious, tilting her head to the side. "Your cock, it feels like some kind of big obelisk in me." 

            She rolled us over, with me suddenly on top, and we stared at each other, took a breath, a bit surprised still, at all this, at how we were connected but neither of us really remembered when it had happened.  And then both of us began slapping our bellies together, doing it slowly, then gathering steam, speeding up, faster, faster. 

            Listening to the dull echoing smack of our skin bounce off the walls and return to us, she started growling, sounding as if she was being disemboweled by her pleasure.  "We're the best!" she shouted, from deep in her throat, her breasts shimmying.  "The best!" 

            We kept it going for several minutes, rather dumbly and blindly, as if abstracted by the mere motions of what we were doing.  "The best," she kept whispering, and then she stopped suddenly, eyeing me.  Still underneath me, taking a breath, a single long breath, as if collecting herself, she drew her knees up between us, pulling them into her breasts, and slowly insinuated the insteps of her feet against my stomach; I could feel her shins pressing against me, with her toenails scraping my hips and sides, while her arms tightened around my back.  She was now a big ball under me. 

            She settled, groaning softly with the new angle of me in her.  "It's deep!  Too fucking deep." 

            "Deep and deeper," I said. 

            She went still, motionless, staring at me with a new look in her face.  Ominously, pro-vocatively, her eyebrows up, she said, "Now it's time for you to come.  You've been in me for. . . what—four or five hours?  Gotta come." 

But I shook my head.  I said, "No." 

            "You can't pull out of me!  If you try to stand up and leave this bed to eat breakfast or go home, I'll destroy you.  I swear I will." 

            "I'm not leaving the bed." 

            "You toad—you have to come.  And you can't pull out and put yourself back in!  Have to come." 

            "Just like I have to eat dirt, right?  Does it root me, ground me?"  I was teasing her, giving her advice back to her; I was very proud of her, actually, at what she had taught me, as if she wanted to be the dirt, the very earth on top of me or underneath me, and all around me.  Feeling in a very good, almost joyous mood, I wanted to argue with her, talk to her, oppose her—while all the while remaining in her.  "You see," I said, wagging my head, explaining to her as if she were incapable of even the simplest explanation, "I don't want to come, or eat dirt or smell shit—I only want to be held, just like this, like you're doing right now.  To be inside you. . .till the end of time. . ." and I laughed. 

            Her eyes sparkling, as she shook her head at me, she said, "Oh, you're so romantic!"  Then she asked, "But what will your balls say?"

That was funny.  "They," I whispered, "have to get used to it, I guess. . ." 

            She shook her head harder.  "They'll get so big and full that your sperm will start leaking out of you." 

            "So you've said."  I shrugged.  "I guess so."  I was completely delighted with our talk, and her demands, and how she was like a big globe curled beneath me. 

            "You have to come!" she shouted.

            "And if I don't?" 

            She furrowed her eyebrows, searching for a response.  "You just do. . ." she whispered.

            I said, "We'll just stay here in bed, forever.  They'll have to call the fire department to separate us.  Besides, you didn't want me to jerk off, remember?  Well, I won't.  As long as I'm inside you I can't jerk off." 

"—but then you can't come either!" 

"That's okay." 

            She was smiling, still giggling.  "You're a freak.  Or some big, awful child." 

            "I am," and we laughed.  "But I'll never come." 

            She said, "You need to give me. . .to give me the. . ." and she laughed, "give me the money shot.  We all have to see you come—everyone in the world does.  We need to see the ejaculation, for proof!  Otherwise nothing happened.  Right?  Am I right?" 

            She had remembered the porno tape we had seen a couple of weeks ago—how the men's cocks, at orgasm, always had to be yanked out of the women, to be brandished out and about for everyone to see, though the poor women in the film, like my lover, had to suddenly empty themselves, had to forego their own orgasms in order to pull the cock—like some terrible sword—out of their bodies.  "Awful,"  she had said when we watched this.  "She has to wrench it away from her; it's just like you want to do sometimes, you prick!  All the world has to be assured that it happened!" 

"But I never want to come," I said to her now.  "No one has to witness my orgasm.  Besides, with you and me, when we fuck, I always put it back in and you get your orgasm.  You get lots of them; you ride my cock to doomsday. . ." 

"—but now you don't want to come, you poor hopeless sack of shit." 

            "Don't you mean, 'poor hopeless sack of sperm?'" I asked.  I was having great fun now.  "The world," I said, "all it needs to know is that I am never without.  You're always nearby, making me hard, never letting me go flat.  It knows I never jerk off anymore." 

            Now whispering, her hands held gently against my cheeks, as if she were talking to a recalcitrant little boy, she said, "But you have to come.  It's not right to hold back. . .for you or for me." 

            I said, "It's much better this way, never having to touch myself, never having to wonder if I'll ever find a woman, or even get aroused again.  Now I know. . ." and I gave her a thrust.  "Now I know," I added, and I gave her another thrust, and she gave me one back.  "You see, it's always better with you.  With me inside you like this, the whole world will know.  Go ahead, call the fire department.  We'll be on the news at eleven: 'Couple needs to be extracted.'"     

            She was suddenly rolling us over, for her to be on top again.  She laughed, proud of her accomplishment, sitting up on me, noble and tall.  She started on me again with her belly and hips, doing it very slowly.  "It'll be days," she said, "before the firemen arrive; days before we've had enough, and we make the call.  In the meantime, how'll we eat?  We have to eat while we fuck." 

            "We're already eating," I said.  "Remember my prick is a mouth," and I opened my mouth for her.  "Your cunt, it's a mouth too."  

            "Of course," she said, nodding at me, smiling at how I remembered her words.  She opened her mouth and closed it, like me, doing it again and again.  "Your cock, though, it'll want to come.  It can't hold out. . ." 

            "It can."

            "Cannot," and she furrowed her brow again, gripping me tighter with herself.  Solemnly, she began beating at me with her belly and breasts, doing it with more focus and gravity.  "You don't know what you're in for," she hissed.  "The world is shit and pain and sperm and pleasure, and you're part of it.  Can't keep it away by not coming." 

            "Never, never," I laughed. 

            "Oh, yes!  Dissolution, death—after you spurt.  There's no way to avoid it. . ." 

            "Yes, there is. . ."       

            "No, there's not," she said, grunting once, twice, as she thrust herself down on me.  "Time for you to come.  Always gotta come. . .always partake. . .in the world.  Gotta die, gotta be reborn. . ." 

            "No. . ."