We had already fucked twice that night. At first it had been hot aggressive sex after the pretense of conversation, drinks, and a movie had dissipated. It was Penthouse sex at its very core. We had fucked the bed into disarray and worked our muscles to the demands of the lustful drill instructor in our heads telling us to push past the quivering exhaustion to the finish line just up ahead. After a brief recess I had enthusiastically sucked his cock throwing his hands off my head and pushing him down onto the bed. There are certainly times and situations when I am more than happy to allow my face to become a passive receptacle for pleasure but in this moment his body was my territory and I wanted every sensational detail to be under my control. I dragged my nails down his legs as I let my teeth cascade down the shaft before twirling my tongue on the head of his cock. You wouldn’t interrupt Da Vinci at his canvas, would you?
Before the taste of his cum had left my mouth I was bent over the bed being fucked in the ass. In times of pure distilled lust I know that I am not perfect but I believe that I was meant to be. My body, our bodies, our lives with all of their perceived flaws and battle scars are a thing of marvel. We came to this city and forged a community with bonds as strong as the cables of the Golden Gate Bridge. I swell with pride for humanity because we can launch rockets into face and design front clasping bras. I am an atheist who is certain that sex without shame or regret is an exaltation to the universe. I know this because when I slide my hand under my cunt it feels like honey is pouring through my fingers onto the sheets and I laugh through his thrusting and his grip. Even after I feel the end of his twitching and I am unable to move out of my vulnerable pose, I am still laughing.
I am developing a bit of a reputation for this apparent delerium. It’s there in the dungeon as well as the bedroom or the occasional alleyway or freeway overpass (once in the choir loft of a church). I laugh because I have been present for strong minded individuals who can explain the basic tenets of nuclear fusion become literally incapable of forming sentences through their scrunched-up faces as they work so hard to obtain the intensity of a glorified muscle spasm. When we are primal, it is beautiful and it is absurd. I laugh.
I laugh through the sensory overload of an unexpected slap across the face from someone I trust implicitly because I’m too confused to scream. I laugh sometimes because my cat is yowling to the tune of moaning. I laugh because someone slipped on a puddle of lube. I laugh because I feel free from all the worry and stress I often carry on my shoulders like a bag lady and it is funny to feel suddenly so light. I laugh because I’m still here experiencing the joie de vivre heralded by broken capillaries like exploding fireworks.
When I laugh, things seem to suddenly stop. It doesn’t matter that I spent a full hour and fifteen minutes on eye makeup only to have it smear from my eyelid to my earlobe and that the hairspray I used has encouraged my hair to sit in a matted clump. It doesn’t matter that someone is going to have to clean up the giant mess left behind. I am human but I am made in the image of divine. If I am reclining in soggy sheets, sore but satiated, looking like an utter ruin of femininity then that must also be the style of the gods. I have been struck dumb with reverence for all of the things we are, it makes me happy, so I laugh.