Another engagement with Sarah in a hotel by the airport. I’ve visited her at least a dozen times, but the erotic delights she provides do not get tiresome. When I was younger and striving for purity, I thought the fascination with sex must wear off after repeated exposure. I discovered instead that my erotic appetite is insatiable.

Now I’m behind her on the bed. I grab her hips, then slowly push my cock inside her. I hear her moan. I begin pumping my cock into her slowly. My fingers dig into her waist. “God….” she sighs breathily. My cock rhythmically moves in and out, in and out. Her moans are like music, and I keep thrusting, harder and deeper. I’m getting lost in the moment. The cosmos is concentrated in this hotel room, on this bed, in this woman. It’s just the two of us right there, and I’m losing myself in her. As pleasure overwhelms me, my rational faculties dim. My hips instinctually rotate back and forth in a muscular frenzy. Grunts and groans escape my mouth without permission. I start to feel that “faintness” and “abandon” described by Shelley.

Bataille insisted that the “whole business of eroticism is to destroy the self-contained character of the participators as they are in their normal lives.” In my normal life I put a premium on self-control. I’m obsessed with propriety. I rigidly schedule my time. I’m excessively rational. I’m painfully self-conscious. I’m stuck in my head. What is so frightening, and exhilarating, about eroticism is that it forces me to “let go” and plunge into ecstasy. It’s a release from my ordinary repressed self and my mundane concerns. In the heat of passion, no longer subsumed by my identities, I’m reduced to my erection. There’s an absence of moral judgment. It’s as if I enter an erotic trance, and “what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell” (Whitman) is banished from my consciousness.

Orgasm is surrendering to the experience. Philosopher Sara Heinamaa observes, “Orgasmic experience does not manifest the threefold structure of experienced time.” The temporal order of past, present, and future organizes most experience. Memories of prior events and the anticipated future mold the contours of the here and now. The experience of orgasm is different. “It dislocates the experiencing subject temporarily and seems to raise her above time or press her underneath its surface,” according to Heinamaa. Orgasm is experienced as a loss of consciousness (la petite mort) and is analogous to artistic inspiration, spiritual illumination, and even madness. It is the experience “of stepping outside oneself and transcending one’s limits.” Ekstasis. No wonder films have commonly alluded to orgasm through depictions of naturalistic “images of overflow and explosion” such as waterfalls and fireworks.

Afterwards with Sarah, I tried to recollect myself. Post coitum omne animalium triste est. Her itinerary will next take her to Orlando. I quietly dressed. She gave me a kiss on the cheek, then I exited her room.

I recently discovered a new escort listing site. Taking a break from my final paper on Lacan and the “triumph of religion,” I browsed the site and happened upon a comely young blonde visiting from the Midwest. Despite being pressed for time, I couldn’t resist. I contacted “Hayley,” got screened, and arranged an early evening appointment.

Petite but busty, Hayley met me in her hotel room attired in lacy red lingerie. She’s a quiet girl, younger than I anticipated, and our efforts at conversation were halting. She subtly removed her lingerie. I followed suit and removed my clothes. We climbed on the bed. She let me caress her silky soft porcelain skin. My hands found their way to her breasts. My mouth then found its way to her nipples. More caresses and kisses, then she whispered in my ear, “Are you ready to be inside me?” The condom went on. She lay back and spread her legs. I climbed onto her and pressed the head of my cock between her pussy lips, easing slowly into her. She spread her legs wider. My body rocked on top of her, my mouth kissing the smooth flesh on her neck. I began to pump furiously for what seemed an eternity, then I finally reached bliss.

We quickly disengaged, then dressed in silence.

I once fucked Britney Spears.

OK, it was actually a Britney doppelganger. I was in Chicago during a frigid January for a churchwide convocation. The desire to sample some local talent impressed itself upon me late one evening, so I browsed escort sites on my laptop. One particular lady seemed promising, and I made contact and quickly set up an appointment. Her face was obscured on her ad; I wasn’t sure what to expect. I prepared for her arrival and waited.

When she arrived, I opened the door and….

She looked like she was Britney Spears.

Some history: I entered puberty when Britney was at her Lolita-esque prime, suggestively writhing on stage with a python between her legs. Her naughty schoolgirl performance mesmerized me and probably triggered a fetish. As Kevin Smith put it at the time, “People are into Britney Spears because they want to fuck Britney Spears.”

I tried to take those thoughts captive. But I wanted to fuck Britney Spears.

Now several years later, a more mature version of my pubescent wet dream stood before me. I must have looked pretty harmless in my gray sweater because she didn’t bother to check my ID.

I had fantasized that Britney was a little freak in the sheets. I eagerly anticipated what her double would do. We undressed and got on the bed and….

She just laid there.

Talk about a letdown. We briefly conversed afterwards, then she put on her clothes and left.

So much for my fantasies.

“He felt he had touched the most savage state of his nature. . . . How poets and all the others tell lies! They make you believe that they need sentiment, whereas the thing which they need more is that acute, destructive, tremendous sensuality . . . sensuality without phrases, pure, burning sensuality.”

D.H. Lawrence

“You’re reserved, but you’re passionate,” Stephanie told me as she drew her naked body close to mine.

Words others have frequently used to describe me are “quiet,” “reserved,” “reticent.” I don’t easily express emotions. I can come across as aloof.

It is only in the realm of sex where my passions are unfettered.

The raw physicality of sex entices me. All my senses are engaged. My general discomfort with physical contact with others disappears during sex. During sex I’m unconstrained, unbridled, enthusiastic. There is no more physical act than entering a woman’s body.

Rhonda remarked that I intellectualize the world around me. I’m decidedly left-brained. I usually live in my head. My commitment to rationality is swept away by sexual passion, an act that by its very nature obliterates reason. To be carnal is to be of the flesh, that is, in the body. Alan Goldman writes, “Sexual desire lets us know that we are physical beings, and, indeed, animals.” Is my deepest, most hidden yet truest self revealed in the sexual act?

D.H. Lawrence thought sex “is our deepest form of consciousness…. It is pure blood-consciousness.” By “blood-consciousness” Lawrence means pre-reflective, pre-cognitive, subconsciousness. “The ecstasy of copulation,” in Schopenhauer’s words, causes us to evacuate self-consciousness. The Greek word ekstasis means literally “standing outside oneself.” Only to the extent that the intellect can be disengaged is ecstasy possible. Perhaps the most distinguishing mark of homo sapiens is the capacity for reason, for conscious thought. This capacity disappears in sexual ecstasy. One’s sense of individuality is attenuated as two physical bodies merge together. Instinct, not reason, controls the body. Bestial noises are made by the participants. In sex we surrender our intellect and self-consciousness and open ourselves to our primal self—so that we become animals.

I live from what Lawrence called the “upper centres,” the level of self-conscious thought. Most of the time I’m wary of passion and slightly embarrassed by bodily functions. I try to defy the primal self. Is this, however, all simply an false denial of my primal self? Sex is a refuge from tyranny of the intellect. Lawrence argued that in sex we are most true to who we really are. “Sex is our deepest form of consciousness.”

“My religion is belief in the blood and the flesh, which are wiser than the intellect.”

D.H. Lawrence

Benedictine monk Sebastian Moore said that we must acknowledge that even our animalistic desires are God-given.

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During one of our earliest encounters, Stephanie speculated that my reserve concealed something more primal. “There must be an animal in there somewhere,” she said with an impish smile.

Then Stephanie said in her irresistibly sweet girlish voice, “Sometimes a girl just wants to get fucked.”

Animal lust soon consumed us. We yielded to sexual abandon. Stephanie got on her hands and knees. I knelt behind her, marveling at her round buttocks and arching back. I wrapped my hands firmly around her waist, squeezed her soft flesh and entered her from behind. Soon I was feverishly thrusting into her. Fucking doggie style, in the manner of animals, we abandoned any pretense to dignity. Both of us emitted the most primitive, inarticulate sounds. I grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her back onto me as I thrust, fucking her even more intensely. The Wild Man had taken over, released from the cage of propriety, his masculine primal power on full display.

Later, Stephanie complimented me on unleashing my “wild side.”

I pulled up to the shabby budget motel. “Alana” had texted me that she had just returned with “supplies.” I knocked on the door, and she let me in. Alana was a self-described “young MILF” in her mid-20’s with long brown hair and an average build. She met me wearing only a black bra and matching black panties. A space heater was operating on the other side of the room. The heat wasn’t working properly, she explained.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” she said sweetly. “I like your sweater.” She helped me take it off. Soon we were both naked on the bed. She took me into her mouth, her head bobbing up and down. After pleasuring me orally, she slid a condom on me. She climbed on top of me, moving her hips in a circular motion. She slid her hand down and manually stimulated her clit. My hands clenched her hips as my hips thrust off the bed. After several minutes, I cried out my pleasure.

But Alana wasn’t done. After cleaning me up, she caressed and stroked my cock and got it hard again. She got another condom and covered me, then she lay on her back and spread her legs. She squirmed beneath me as my pelvis rocked back and forth. She reached down to stimulate herself again. The bed shook as I exerted myself. I erupted once more.

We talked afterwards. She said she wanted to go back to school, probably in the medical field. She enjoyed making jewelry. Christmas was a little rough for her; she had barely enough money to afford presents for her young son. She was really sweet, and I found myself feeling sorry for her. When our time was up, I quickly got dressed and left. I felt somewhat depressed afterwards.

I received an e-mail from “Sarah” this morning. She is a flight attendant and part-time escort. We had seen each other before. She was in town for a couple of days and was available. I replied expressing interest in an appointment, and she responded, saying that she could meet me early this evening. I battled rush hour traffic and arrived at a hotel near the airport. I was welcomed by a friendly, curvy, somewhat matronly woman in her 40’s in black lingerie. She fetched me a bottle of water, and we caught up a bit. Then it was time for fun.

She positioned herself so she was sitting on the tops of my thighs. She slid the latex over me. Moving up on her knees, she positioned herself above me, fitting me inside her. She closed her eyes and leaned back her head. This woman was built to fuck. Rocking her pelvis back and forth, her big tits flopping up and down, she increased her speed as I bucked beneath her, magnifying the friction inside her. She continued to ride me, picking up her pace even more. I grabbed onto those delicious breasts, as if I was holding on for dear life.

Then she suddenly stopped and got off me. She got on her knees and leaned forward, inviting me to enter her from behind. I guided my cock to her pussy. Placing my hands around her ample waist, I started pumping. My strokes became deeper and stronger. She arched her back and cried, “Oh, God, I’m coming!”