I’ve never felt really horny about people having sterile sex, the kind that would pass hospital tests for zero contamination, airtight, vacuum-packed. It’s just that a perfect fuck involves laughter, moans, position changes, kisses, saliva, that kind of thing. I didn’t say that, but I agree.

A perfect fuck doesn’t involve penises, anuses, or vaginas. It’s all conventions and politeness being thrown down the drain.

A perfect fuck is the kind where smells and sweat mingle right there at the roots of the hairs on the back of your neck.

A perfect fuck starts awkwardly sideways, in a back room, fitting into the bed or the sofa in a living room that isn’t even your own. A good fuck doesn’t let you remember your social security number.

A perfect fuck involves toes in your mouth and a heavy hand on your neck. It only makes you notice the numbness in your legs after it’s over and you fall to your side, exhausted. A perfect fuck is kind of dirty, the kind that gives everything, rubs it in your face, and leaves a lot of mess. Saliva is exchanged on your skin.

A perfect fuck has positions you can’t even repeat later. It’s an involuntary contraction that you’ve long since lost track of.

A perfect fuck is a grip on the thigh, a suck on the armpit, a tongue in the ass. Mouths that discover stories, tongues that build roads.

A perfect fuck is unpretentious and surrendered, with an empty mind and hands completely full of the other: their pores, moans, secrets. A perfect fuck leaves marks to hide the next day and to bring up on nights alone in a hotel room. A perfect fuck leaves hair, pubes, and reservations deliberately scattered across the floor.

A perfect fuck is a bit like a battle on the battlefield, and much more like a white flag and surrender. A perfect fuck must have laughter when that unwary bite happens due to uncontrolled lust. A perfect fuck, really perfect fuck, is the one I have with you.