The demands of contemporary heterosexuality are untenable, exhausting, and emasculating. How the fuck are we supposed to fuck when we need to be not just friends with our lovers and spouses, but punching bags, sound boards, structures of support for every banal anxiety. We have to listen to each other moan about the assholes at work, the attending angst, the pimples and dimples on our rectum, the endless list of soul deadening tasks — bills and house cleaning and car and future and payments and and and and....
And so thank goodness for the discrete encounter — an hour and 2 Benjamins later and I've been treated like a goddamn king. No discussion about our anxieties and fears, no seething resentment, no repressed rage: just generous strokes and nibbles and napes and no hesitation in asking her to lick my bunghole or let me lick hers. Nothing but desire consummated.
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