Thursday, September 6, 2007
No, Really, We Internet People Fuck Better When You Think Of Us
filed under: Erotic Elite by Melissa Gira
(Hello, Nerve readers. I hope you enjoyed the only bit of sex advice I’ve ever given on the internet. Now I don’t usually do that. Or this, either. For you, just for today, an excerpt from my own journal.)
Triumphant, triumphant, joyous, raucous sex. Some virtue in it, to accept that the people who touch our core in sex are not always the ones to shack up with, the ones we love. But there is an enduring rapture: I adore fucking, fucking him, love how we fuck, love that he tells me that he loves how we fuck.
“You have a book here,” he says.
I’m fuck-drunk on this, this joy, this coming Fall. Fucked on possibility. Drunk on the moment. On the sort of pleasure that is all encompassing, that can exceed even one’s own capacity for pleasure, in a moment — can show you what you could be.
I fall in love with this possibility. Not people. I fall in love with the future.
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