On sex

My problem is that I fall in love with every woman I fuck. I fuck good, but I am overemotional. To me, when a woman gives me her body, I feel as if she is giving me her soul; that’s part of what makes me hot. And then the whole act has overtones of death and murder and conquest. But mostly I just feel a rush of fondness and love, and I can’t overcome it.
I throbbed throughout for the woman I had just fucked. I wasn’t worldly that way, and it cost me, but I couldn’t correct it. Most people shrug off a fuck like they shrug off a picnic. I don’t understand that attitude.

Charles Bukowski, “The big dope reading.”

The guy has been dead for a while now, but his words are immortal. For some of us, at least. For us who were born or raised or cursed by this special sensibility. For us who interpret the world and everything in it in a different way. For us who experience the whole grayscale between the black and white most people choose to see. Or can only see.

Can’t say I am as sensitive as Charles was. I perceive sex from a distance. The act to me is selfless, for I thrive in my partner’s pleasure rather than my own. I am a giver. And a witness. An spectator and protagonist of a play of lust and sweat and warmth and pleasure.

The connection. If there’s something I can remember from a good fuck is not the fuck itself, but the connection I felt with the other person. The stares that triggered heartbeats filled with love. Instants of glory and bliss. Two souls becoming one for a few milliseconds, in which the world stopped turning and the Universe froze around our naked bodies. A space in time where all the gods and fate and sacred and unholy entities turned their eyes towards us; envying our simple mortality turning into the very root of all life forms that have and will ever exist. That’s a good fuck.

Sex. Love. In a few months I have had fragments of it; mere pieces of a masterpiece that never will be. That left me eager for more. As if my soul knew there was more, but our heads were too busy or scared to let there be more.

The woman I have loved the truest and longest said to me that she was afraid to lose me. She wanted to keep the hope of us being together in a brighter future, where my demons were vanished and our love could thrive, stronger than ever. “I will be alone for a long time,” I said. Still believe so. Alone, but not loveless. As far as there are eyes to stare in the embrace of a passionate night. As long as there are goosebumps under the soft touch of my fingers. As long as there is a good, proper fuck; I will be okay.

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