I could write you about all the things I like about sex–reiterate erotica I slipped my hands under the covers with when I was twelve on thirteen; recall all the men I once had only in mind, and then the men I once had eventually inbetween sheets.

I could paint pictures of positions and types–match fabric swatches to the silk and corduroy of skin and hair; talk about how the electricity vibrates through the core of my being, paint pictures of how my emotions are magnified and my body enlightened.

I could show you how I watched my features set on fire; how my body became mine–but captivating and recited like a movie that could only be watched once, and never owned.

People tell me that fucking is vague, shallow and meaningless. People tell me that fucking is a loveless act.

Fucking is to loving your body as making love is to loving your mate. Fucking is knowing you control your own pleasure, and finally allowing it to come. Fucking is atlas, shrugged–fucking is more about me than anything else has ever been.

The magic is us in the second–creating a universe that hangs only for a moment. The fairytale is the beast in your eyes and the guttural noise in your lower throat. The love is the feeling of me: finally doing whatever I fucking want.

There is more to this world than the people you’ve held or had between your sheets–there is more to this world than numbers or rosters or little black books. There is knowledge and passion and love; things that are not lessened by sequence or hindered by the triviality of what once was.

People are so afraid their entity is finite they forget to ever experience it. There are billions of people who have ever been alive–but how many people are there who have ever been living?

I’ve spent nineteen years being afraid of ever knowing me: the girl so obsessed with her own sexuality Steel followed Nabokov and Poe, diaries of call girls and memoirs of geishas were studied once before Dickinson, and twice after Shakespeare.

Skin and people are not like poetry and prose. Fucking cannot be covered in stories and movies. There are words for wetness and moisture; pleasure and softness–but there are no words for the carnal noise before impact. There are no words for the way your fingertips against my skin in the morning sun make my entire body remember. There are no words for the way your face looks when the animal inside of you is finally sated. There are no words for the way your soul softens with your touch after you’ve spilled your being.

And maybe there are words, and maybe I should have spent more time in dictionaries and thesauruses and less time in dicktionaries and fucking; and maybe words can bring your mind ideas and simple epiphanies–but your body can bring your soul nirvana, a simple and concrete ecstasy.

But your body can bring you fluidity and passion; can show you what you are under the skin–behind the degrees and the years, behind the makeup and the designer suits.

It can show you who you are without the bullshit. What you are when the lights are on and every part of you is still naked and raw. What you are when you realize you are human, like the one inside of you.

It can show you that you can make mistakes and still feel; that everything that was once of you is now apart of you–but will never be you.