Talking about fucking while fucking

I have not seen F for several weeks; it is unlikely I will see her again. What, about sex with F, will I miss the most? Perhaps, the way that F and I often talked about fucking while fucking. That it is possible to talk while fucking is one reason why fucking is superior to any sex-act in which the mouth is busy. Cunt-eating and cock-sucking are delightful, but conversation-stoppers all the same; the lips, teeth, and tongue do one thing at a time.

Talking with F about fucking while fucking was mostly a matter of swapping self- and other-congratulatory remarks about how good we were at fucking each other. Fucking is always fun to talk about, even if it cannot sustain conversations of any great depth or complexity. Fucking is of course a lot more fun than merely talking (or reading) about fucking, but the one does not exclude the other. We can talk while fucking, so we can talk about fucking while fucking.

Not every kind of talking about fucking while fucking adds to the fun of fucking. With F it was the manner of this conversation that I enjoyed - happy, matter-of-fact, frank, open, thoughtful, unswayed by convention or artifice or insecurity. The content of the conversation was, for the most part, trite or banal. But together with the fucking, it accomplished an intimacy, and a joy, that seemed to flow immediately from the union of our bodies, without passing through any of the usual filters, putting us in direct contact with age-old human experiences, making us feel as if we belonged - belonged accidentally to each other, for these moments, but through this accidental and momentary belonging, belonged essentially and eternally to everything natural and good.

F found her way into this happy, natural part of herself through sex. She longed to share this part of herself with someone who wanted to share more than just sex with her. She wanted me to be the right person to share herself with, but saw clearly that I was not the right person at all. Reconciling desire to reality, she hoped for change in me. She hopes for it still. That hope is futile, but F, a recovering alcoholic, believes otherwise: she changed, so why shouldn't I? But this entire complex of attitudes fell away in the midst of fucking, and F and I could then talk easily of our desire and admiration for each other. And it is that talking about fucking while fucking that I will miss most.

Cynical restatement (to save Candy the work): I miss fucking F; I could only stand talking to F while fucking her; the rest of the time she was a pain.