There’s the kind you have in the morning with sleep in your eyes and lust in your veins. It’s as easy as pushing into him and pulling into her and you’re waking up in last night’s dream. You crave the start of every yesterday’s ending, a continuous cycle of sultry discovery. Have a mimosa, your sex is just as never-ending and smooth.
There’s the kind you have drunk with hazy lust and impaired desires. Whether a celebrating couple or salacious strangers, you’re bonded by liquid courage and alcoholic freedom. Falling over their lips and tripping over their skin, you unconsciously sink into one another, with primal thoughts of pure desire. Have a shot of rum, your sex is just as delirious and exciting.
There’s the kind that will leave you crazed with passion and intoxicated with desire. You’re dripping in sexuality and filling your lungs with every infatuation you encounter. You’re pulling off inhibitions and tearing away boundaries and experiencing another human in every possible way. Have a shot of tequila, your sex is just as wild and free.
There’s the kind that will leave you burning. Literally. Burning. Going to the bathroom becomes painful and itching becomes insane and you’re finding questionable bumps in questionable places. You begin to wish you previously cared or carefully planned or agreed to complete protection. Have a few shots of Everclear, your sex needs sanitation.
There’s the kind you first had after marriage. Draped in white and scared with excitement, every touch is brand new and every gasp is celibacy dying. Whether personally penned or chipped in stone, you played by the rules until victory was yours for the taking. Have a glass of water, your sex is just as pure and deserved.
There’s the kind you want to forget with every singed fiber and stolen being. Pinned down by force and swallowed by power you felt alone with each push and ruined with every pull. The verve is bleeding from your voice as your mouth becomes a sieve. Have a few shots of whiskey, your sex is branded in your brain and and your helplessness lingers on your breath.
There’s the kind that pushes your mind to wander. You’ll wonder why missionaries enjoyed it as you count ceiling tiles and contemplate playoff scores. You hear the creaking of floors and the aching of doors and you’re glad at least someone is cuming and going. Have a shot of vodka, your sex is just as predictable and clear.
There’s the kind that you have in the summer, when salt lingers on your lips and sunshine stains your skin. You slip imaginations between bikini strings and soak up humidity’s sensuality until the only way to bathe is in them. You’ll be a freckle or a sunspot or a burn, as long as it means you can stick to them. Have a shot of gin, your sex is a solstice’s dream.
There’s the kind you tangle yourself up in. You can’t seem to break free from their scent or rid yourself of their taste. You aren’t fulfilled until you feel them and you can’t possibly feel them enough to be full. Have an AA meeting, your sex needs rehabilitation and twelve steps back.