Some nights — never days — when I am giddy, languid, and awake, the only thing that could make me feel even more magnificent is the sultry, delectable fuck. The smoldering fuck. You know, when she inhales and you feel the air push down your lungs. You know what parts of her body taste like salt, which taste of moss, of smoke, of hops, of plum. The fuck in which you know where her body yields to your pressure and where it stands its ground. The deliberate, exploratory, expansive, generous, lingering, present fuck.