In the W, I had been pleasured by four hands and two tongues. That was the way I had wanted it. That was my fantasy. To have them please me with hands, mouths, and tongues; and to please them with hands and mouth and tongue. Mark and I made a left out front, headed toward the visitor parking lot.

Mark said, "I did it for you."

"Did what?"

"Made sure you got what you wanted."

"Yeah, that's what I wanted."

"I did it for you."

He kissed me again. Kissed me like he couldn't get enough of me. Kissed me and I felt his desire swell, harden against me. I had come many times in a couple of hours. He had only come once.

The rain was pouring down on us.

Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. The skies roared.

He kept kissing me.

Without warning, with so much passion, he turned me around. Hurried to unzip his pants. He lifted my dress, dipped and put his erection inside me. I moaned a singsong moan of pain and plea sure, an encouraging moan as he went deep inside me with urgency. Like he had to get inside my warmth or he would die. He tried to crawl inside me, pumped himself inside me. His jealousy was set free.

Deep inside me, as I embraced this sensation, he asked, "Who made you feel better?"

"You. You. Mark."

He was confident in the way he took me. Skilled. Bold. He knew how to move, wining and moving his hips like he was indeed from the islands, indeed the dance of a Bajan man. He penetrated me like he was trying to get me hooked, to make me move from a zipless affair to his mindless whore.

He growled. "You like the way I'm fucking you?"

I moaned, his words vulgar and strong, demanding, no longer polite, no longer the philosopher who read Sartre and cared about existentialism, all of that gone, the caveman in him remaining.

"Harder...harder...give me that dick...give it to me."

"Like this? You want it like this? Want me...to...fuck...you like...this."

I moaned. "Don't hold back. Don't you fucking hold back."

He growled.

I said, "Let go. Don't be afraid to let go."

He pumped harder. The sex he was giving me was as brutal as life itself. Removed of all idealism. Still, it was poetic. It was brilliant. It was beautiful.

I said, "Fuck me like you want to come."

He pumped and pumped.

He gritted his teeth as I moaned louder and louder.

Thunder boomed.

We were doing it, having passionate sex in the pouring rain, parked cars our only witnesses.

His blessing was swelling. Getting wider. Opening me up. He was going so deep. He held me so tight. Growled. He pumped and pumped. Then he stopped, turned me around again, sat me on top of a stranger's car, sucked my tongue as he opened my legs. He pulled my legs apart, forced me to lie on my back, held my waist and yanked me toward him, went deep inside me again. All I could do was hold on. My hands reached out, grabbed the part of the hood where it met the windshield and held on the best I could, held on until he stroked me so hard I had a spasm and had to let go. He pulled me into his lingam with force. Oh God. He fucked me hard. Had been months since I felt lingam. Even longer since I felt good lingam. And this lingam was damn good. Better than tongue. Better than fingers.

"You're so deep. So deep inside me."

He pumped me hard, relentlessly, like he was trying to make Kunta Kinte call himself Toby.

I held on to him as he bucked into me over and over.

All I could do was hold on and let my wild Mandingo fuck me insane.

He shuddered. His orgasm was about to explode. It was at the tip. Feeling him about to come made me come. I didn't want to come. Just wanted him to come. Just wanted to please him. Wanted to end this zipless night with him satisfied. I'd come enough. But I was coming again.

I was pulling him closer, my hands gripping his ass as he gripped mine, my nails going into his skin and marking another woman's territory, giving him pain, encouraging him to go deeper. I slipped and reached for his neck, grabbing any part of him I could grab, grabbing and wanting more and more of him.

Sex always felt like love, but in my world love never felt like sex. For me, love only felt like love.

Mark moved, kept shifting, kept stirring me. He was remarkable, had more gears than an eighteen-wheeler. This was what I needed. This was what my yoni needed. Not fingers. Not tongue.

This.

Not toys. Not an inanimate object that couldn't hold me, kiss me, feel me, not something to put inside my body and play sexual make-believe with. I wanted this. To be held. To be overpowered. To be controlled while I felt orgasm rising, an orgasm that didn't come from my own hand.

My body craved this. Not tongues. Not fingers.

This this this.

Some of my choices would lead to regret, but that would be my regret.

The absence of regret marked the absence of life.

I wanted to live my life.

And I'd never felt more alive than I did at this moment.

The skies roared and I moaned. I experienced weightlessness, the brightness behind my eyes more beautiful than the aurora borealis. My head was back, rain falling in my mouth, my hair wet and heavy, my nipples pushing through the dampness of my black dress. Mark was moving like he couldn't get enough of me. He kept me in zero gravity, kept making me float. My moans were like a creature in the wild. His animalistic groan told me he was about to come. He held me like he was insane, held me tighter with every thrust. My delirium refused to let him go. Selfishness refused to let him seed the ground, jealousy wouldn't allow me to share anything he had to give with Mother Earth. He leaned back, his eyes tight, his head up to the sky, rain falling on his face, and he moaned so loud, and that pre-orgasmic outburst was followed by a keen whimper, like he was becoming weak.

We were out of control.

He fucked me too hard, almost fucked me off the car, fucked me so hard I had started to slide. He reached for me as his orgasm pulled at him. In the middle of the madness, the car we were on was well-waxed, and Mark slipped away from me as I slipped away from him. We began to detach. Maybe he pulled out before his river started to flow. But he was no longer inside me. Left my yoni hollow, left me struggling to pull him back, but I couldn't. He fell away from me calling my name. His come spewed and mixed with rain with him calling my name like he wanted me to get back to him before his orgasm ended.

He shuddered, twitched, collapsed, went down hard.

Even on the ground he was still moaning, breathing in hard, breathing out the same way.

As was I. I owned no strength, no coordination, my legs as limp as overcooked spaghetti.

Rain battered me, the sky soaking me with its own liquid release.

I held on to the car as long as I could, had tried to keep from sliding to the ground, but I was covered with bliss, my thighs slick with jism, too weak to stand. I struggled to hold on to the car's waxed bumper, neither gravity nor friction working in my favor, and had to let go, the convulsions in my body too strong, let my body find its way to the asphalt between parked cars.

I was soaked head to toe, and I was panting.

Rain fell on us hard. The sky lit up with electricity.

The car I was leaning against, its alarm started going off, its lights flashing. It didn't go off until now. As if it had been a voyeur, waiting for me to come, waiting for Mark to come, maybe frozen in awe of what it had witnessed, now so excited by what it had witnessed it had somehow pleased itself, was coming for us as we had for it. I expected all the cars to start coming, waited to hear alarms going off one by one until the parking lot was filled with automobiles and SUVs having orgasms.

But only one car screamed.

I looked at my partner. He had made it up on one knee, like the orgasm had taken his strength.

The car wailed, its lights flashing and betraying us to at least half of the five hundred hotel rooms.

I moaned his name, my voice more sound than an actual word. He didn't answer my call. I managed to get to my feet, staggered over to him, shook him. He didn't move.

I leaned against the wailing car, my hands holding on to what ever I could hold on to, my body was struggling to recover. As Mark raised his head, rain drained down his face, his expression so intense.

He struggled to his feet, pulled his soaked and wrinkled pants up, the change in his pockets jingling. The flashing lights showed his suit was ruined. Revealed my black dress ruined beyond repair.

Hand in hand, soaked head to toe, we laughed and staggered away from the wails and flashing lights. Mark escorted me to my car, our walk that of two drunkards leaving a bar at last call.

He panted as he asked, "Are you all right?"

I panted in return, moved my hair from my soaked face and nodded. "Scraped my knee."

"How bad?"

"Not bad. Will put some Neosporin on it when I get home."

Mark nodded. "Think I pulled a muscle."

We sat in my car, rain draining from our skin, water dripping across my leather seats.

I didn't care.

He held my hand and talked to me.

I didn't expect that part, conversation after sex, endearing words after intimacy, not at all.

I asked, "You do this often?"

"Do what?"

"This."

He yielded a weak smile. "Marriage changes everything, including your sex life."

"If I ever get married, I want both to change for the better."

"Idealistic."

"Every woman wants a fairy tale, even though we know there are no fairy tales. There might be fairy tale moments, but there are no fairy tales. Dopamine dwindles and the energy lessens."

"Dopamine. Where did you read that?"

"National Geographic. Yeah, I know. I'm a part-time nerd."

He chuckled. "Well, FYI. Twenty percent of married couples only have sex ten times a year."

"Since losing passion seems inevitable, maybe people should just keep dating."

"Maybe. Once married life begins, your sex life ends. Stop laughing."

"What about you and your wife? Ten times a year."

"We had sex four times last year."

"Four times?"

"That last time was on Valentine's Day."

"That was in the winter."

"I know."

"It's summer now."

"I know."

"Sex four times a year is not sex."

"What would you call it?"

"Hell, if we're having sex four times a year, we sure as hell aren't in a relationship. I mean, if we were only going to do it four times, give it to me over one weekend so I can have the next fifty-one weeks to do my own thing. Don't have me sitting around wondering if I'm going to get lucky. Sex four times a year, you're nothing more than roommates. Friends get more benefits than marriage."

"It wasn't always like that. Once we had sex twenty-one times."

"In a month?"

"Over a weekend."

"Twenty-one times? What did you do? Drink a gallon of Irish moss every day?"

"You know about Irish moss?"

"Island girl, baby." I chuckled. "Honeymoon? Were you on your honeymoon?"