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though it were a non-negotiable demand for me to stop fucking her altogether. But either I didn’t have the energy or the time wasn’t right, and I pulled back. I brought my cock to the point where the tip of it was right at the opening to her cunt. I nudged in and opened her up gently, and then pulled back and watched the pink membrane close up right after me. I poked in again, and then out. She gasped and wiggled her ass. It was a kind of genital foreplay and ordinarily is just the prelude to deeper things, but I knew this was as much as she could take, so we did it that way. It was like getting a blow job where the lips never leave the head, and although I wanted time and again to shove it all the way up her hole, I contented myself to feeling the heat vibrations dance around the tip of my tool, and then, moving faster, felt the come beginning to stir at the shaft of my cock. I reached down and pried her buttocks apart. I could see the cunt, now wet, sloppily sloshing as it sucked at my prick. I reached lower and opened her cunt with my fingers. She shuddered a bit and grabbed the sheet with her fingers, clenching the fabric into a ball.
    The space filled with the heady aroma of cunt goo and now her secretion became the thick white flow that marks real sexual excitement. I flashed the thought that perhaps I could do it, could get her to come. But already I felt the summons deep inside me. I rode, gingerly and tingling, to a small, local, intense orgasm, feeling it all in the head of my cock, coming with most of my tool still outside her, and just the tip spouting the sperm into her blind gash. There was a long dislocated moment, in which I felt myself as myself, and felt her as her, and was aware of some invisible bond which held us together, some kind of relationship that had no name or form or meaning, but just was. Again, I felt us an “us” although all my conscious faculties would have nothing to do with the idea.
    I pulled my cock out and she fell face forward on the bed. I sat down where I was kneeling and looked at her. She rolled over and her face presented me with a delightful surprise, for she was relaxed and smiling and warm. “Ohh,” she said, “that was wonderful.” And then slid over and put her head in my lap and her arms around my waist. I suddenly felt good all over and lay down beside her, pulling her into my arms and close to my chest, and suddenly feeling the human warmth that had been missing during the fucking, that quality of person which can’t be defined but is necessary if the soul is not to die of thirst.
    Two years had passed since that moment, and in essence, nothing had changed. But what we have become with each other is immeasurably deeper and richer, there is a fullness that goes beyond the meager faculties of consciousness to understand. She is still a bitch and I am still a madman, and yet, no matter how I twist or turn, I find her.
    And running in opposition, is my total desire for freedom, to have no human being depend on me, to have no one be able to say I must be in a certain place at a certain time. Now that the revolution is exploding, now that I am reaching a fullness of power and insight, there is a sense of propulsion, a sense of wanting to discard all name and costume, and hurl myself out into the nothingness on a long single fiery trajectory into the final end. And yet I walk, step by step, into the arms of the woman who may be nothing but an early deafness and suffocation.
    There are a thousand, a hundred thousand I’s inside me, countless masks and costumes. All the conditioning of my youth, the training that made me a priest a communist a bisexual a fascist a poet a drug addict a teacher a cosmic protoplasmic blip, and all the racial archetypes of the entire species, are continually screaming for recognition, for energy. They all want expression in the social world, to be formed, to be applauded. And inside, there are as many voices clamoring for concentration, for