A vow to never excuse a sub-par fuck again.
In the thirty-five years I’ve been fucking, I’ve had a wealth of bad sex. There have been men who rubbed my breasts like jinn would appear. Lovers, male and female, who would slip beneath the covers, take the token lap, and pop up like whack-a-moles. Men who mistook stamina for artistry, speed for skill, and my patience for pleasure. Threesomes that were blinding in their shared solipsism. Fucking is a lot like poetry. Sometimes it’s epiphanic; sometimes it's merely boring. Other times it’s just awful.
I had one lover who said, more than once, “I’m not used to women who need foreplay.” I had another whose feet smelled like the scraped leavings of a cheese cave. Another lover refused to kiss me, and lay there passive as an anesthetized sand shark. One, when I was very young, very new to fucking, complained that my pussy got too wet.