There’s the sex in our heads, and the sex in reality. The one in our heads is this ridicul

There’s the sex in our heads, and the sex in reality. The one in our heads is this ridiculous, hyperbolic, mythic shit. The kind that bards would sing ballads about, if bards still existed and if any of the things that bards sang was actually true. They’d pluck their lutes and weave an epic yarn of the sex that was had between you and me, and how it quite literally rocked the world. Of how our minds dribbled out of our ears once we were done, because they were well and truly blown.  That’s the kind of sex where you’re both Olympian athletes. And I don’t mean the kind that perform in the Olympics, I mean the ones that hangout in the clouds above the Mount, the ones who hold dominion over the sea and the air, and over running really fast. (What a little upstart Hermes was). We went for hours and days, and we did it in positions that were frankly quite ridiculous, and utterly impossible. We rewrote the Kama Sutra because that shit is tame as fuck, and we’re far more experimentalist and interesting than that.  In reality you need the pillows, because otherwise you’re going to strain your back. I need to pause for a second once I’ve pushed myself in, so that you can get used to it. I need to talk to you about it afterwards, once we’re in our comfortable clothes and we’re both a little bit tired, to make sure that it was all ok, and nothing was too zaney. In reality we cuddle after, and probably doze for a half hour or so.  No one’s singing about the reality, but then it’s none of the bard’s damn business.  -- source link

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