Reasons to be cheerful, Part Three

All happiness is fleeting, and the happiness that is rooted in fucking is as fleeting as any. But still it is true that hours before and after fucking can be irradiated by the glow.

I met Z in Soho, and we lunched on meat pies and drifted westwards. I do not know exactly how to explain the world that I walk through with Z and how distinct it is from the world that I walk through alone. And this difference, though I may be turned on to it by my sexual desire for her, is not really to do with sex at all, but to do with her appetite for all of life as it unrolls before her, in all its detail.

Yes, yes, very interesting, but what about the sex?

A blowjob, in one of the huge, vacant structures out on one of the piers - not by any means to completion, as we were en route to the Liberty Inn. And then, once we were housed in Room 105, three hours of delightful tangling, including a couple of long, varied, delightful fucks. Three hours, it turns out, is really not long enough at all, and at the end, after the desk clerk's fifteen minute warning, I think both of us would have been ready to go another couple of rounds.

The fucking was truly excellent, and I felt freer to indulge myself than I had last Thursday. But as usual there is nothing that is easy to write about here - the cliches of hard porn are wildly inaccurate and misleading, and the fuzziness of bodice-ripping romance novels equally so. There is, though, a clarity to the experience of fucking that is attainable with Z, or anyway attainable once the differences between her and other women in terms of sensation begin to sink in. This is a clarity that it is hard to lay claim to, for it rests on a kind of self-centredness that I would normally say is the antithesis of what sexual pleasure depends on. But with Z very many things are transformed. Fucking Z there is nothing to be aware of but my own pleasure. There are no readings to be taken, no responses to be registered and adjusted to, no movements either in synch or out of it to be adapted to or not. I exaggerate, but only a little. Yet her cunt is not inert at all. It grips, it changes, it tightens. Most of the activity is on my side, but that is delightful in its own way, and both fucks today were profound and precise. It was also very pleasant to fuck and talk, to enjoy the phases of fucking, the changes of mood and tempo and tone. And fucking Z is a complete manifestation of the truth that people fuck, not cocks and cunts.

Orgasm? This really was not an issue until the end, when I would have loved to come in her mouth - but for all the afternoon it did not matter at all. She has - a long time ago - seen me come; I would love to come for her again sometime. But that is not what fucking is about.

There is much more to be said, but I am not sure I can say it.