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I would fuck her any way she wanted. Up in a tree that thrusts dangerously over the edge of a cliff. Recovering from the flu with a grocery bag over my head. Dressed in a lobster suit lying in muddy turf at midfield during halftime at the Superbowl.
I would fuck her like a ballet dancer, wrapping her legs around me just below my waist and thrusting as I twirled her in figure eights. Like an egoless saint with telepathic powers, I would channel angelic hymns to sweet spots she doesn't even know she has. Like a Fortune 500 CEO, I would fly her to Cancún for breakfast and let her ride me cowgirl-style in a bed full of hundred-dollar bills.
I would fuck her any way, any time, under any circumstances. Only if she would let me, of course. But then I wouldn't want her merely to *let* me fuck her. I'd want her to want me to fuck her. I'd want her to want me voraciously and uninhibitedly, and not desperately or neurotically. I'd want her to lust for me without even being tempted to surrender any of her sovereignty. No power games ever. I hate power games (despite the fact that Catherine MacKinnon and Andrea Dworkin and company insist that hetero men know no other way to make love). And yes, I'd want her to love me--not just because I'm a long-distance runner of a fucker, and a lyrical Buddha of a fucker, and a magnanimous poised servant (not a sniveling infantile slave) of her passions--but because I'm all those things and I don't care that I'm all those things. That I'm accidentally those things. That as a side effect of my intense devotion to the project of cultivating her inner male and facilitating the sacred marriage of her inner male and inner female, I just happen to be a long-distance runner of a fucker, and a lyrical Buddha of a fucker, and a magnanimous poised servant (not a sniveling infantile slave) of her passions.
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