When you’re deep down in it, lost in sweat and slick secretions, sliding into a language of flesh and pressed on by a heartbeat and want and want and want, blurring the awareness of whose skin is whose and where it’s slipping and how its driving on and further in what you want is not
- hold on a minute.
A pause. Cold air. Synapses rearranging to trace the memory of where you left the box–sudden silence when it was all going so well.
I mean, jesus, who’d want to prolong that kind of pleasure, start all over again?