(To them who keep me wake at nights) Each thrust was like an act of love. And the climax promised, in a whisper, the orgasm of a thousand nights. He pushed his love inside, reaching deep till there was no more. He was laid on top of her, their legs foiled together like a rope. Breathing heavily in her ear, his face touching hers, the bristles of his unshaved cheek brushing roughly against her silk-soft cheeks, yet it left no marks. The rough brushing only aroused her senses even more, curling her toes as if trying to brace herself from the physical force that was to come. Their hands, his right, her left, were clasped together tightly. Her soft, fleshy palm embraced tightly by his thin and long fingers, firm but not crushing her hand in his loving grip. It was the posture of an awkward dance, their legs entangled, their hands held up close to their faces, their bodies moving rhythmically. The male leading for now, but at the same time following in her movements, a dance that cannot be taught and yet needs not to be learned. They moved slightly and when they did their eyes caught. They stared deeply in each other eyes; the only sound coming from her soft, sharp breathes that sounded like sweet pain-filled pleasure, and his deep grunts of determination, sending a message of undying, unfaltering love. Their eyes spoke of ancient poetry, silent but a message was clearly there. And in that precise moment, the most beautiful poem was written, memorized and recited. Their united movements and breaths provided the rhythm, their hands provided the unfaltering bond of lines and their eyes read the poetry out loud but only their hearts could hear the wordless poem. His head was so close to hers now it looked like he was trying to hear her thoughts, which were the mantra of "more, more, more". And it is as if he heard her thoughts because now there was a more aggressive outline to the dance. Her intakes of breath was her way of answering, confirming his message. It was as if every muscle in his body was determined on sending his undying message of love and her moans and harder grip around his body was her way of reading his message and approving of its contents. They came together, arriving at a climax stating their unification. He pushed his face in the side of her neck and she gasped as her fingers dug deep around his neck and the base of his hairline. They held each other in this embrace as if trying to hold on to moment in which they felt their bodies speak a language so divine that even poetry can't do it justice, spoken or unspoken. :wink: The dance, the act of love, the RECITAL of poetry and trade of verses, was like many couples before them, unspoken, as in no words and automatic, as in no step-by-step logical proceeds, mundane list of what- and how-to-dos. When a woman refuses to accept, when she will not accept your messages the signals will be a few. But when she does accept, her signals that confirm will be many, almost so one can't not notice them all with the naked eye. But the body knows all of them, it senses her eyes, her nipples, the true essence of sincerity in her moans, her fingers and toes, the warmth of her body, the was her body is aligned to yours, to the dance of love and of course the most obvious signals, some a direct result of her pleasure. And soon every signal from her body bore the same message, a deep, resounding yes that further increased the passion and intensity. The man's message was in fact not what most perceive it to be. Many (men mostly) assume rather egoistically, that it's a statement, "you accept my love", therefore the statement "you want me" is wrongly assumed answered. No, in fact the message of the sacred act of love is a question. Unabashed, sincere and masculine because the act is masculine, but the force behind the act has no gender, because love does not selfishly belong to one single gender, it belongs to both. His message was in fact a question, "do YOU accept my love?" When a man sends the same message as our fortunate lover, the womans message back will be a yes and it also contains an answer to an unasked question, the one of "I WANT your love". Thus it is "Yes, I accept your love and I WANT your love". The egoistical lover does not ask the question, he presumes the answer is yes. And the other unfortante lover is the pathetic one, his message has a question which is "Do you want my love?" Any woman in a true act of love will not accept it and will not answer it. Because it's a plea, a request. Women in true love, sincere act of love, sex at its best as some phrase it, can accept a mans plea nor can she accept the egoistical lover with foolish pride thinking his message will be granted for sure. Love should not be compared to today's view of the word fuck. Fuck, the act of fucking is a road, graveled with sharp rocks, and the end of that road and the distance is all known beforehand. It is boring but the body is fooled, at least one side of the act is (hint, hint). Love should be and IS a voyage, between a man and woman, together finding the road, each step turn on another light in this dark pathway. Man, Woman together united, physically, emotionally and spiritually. A bond that cannot be broken but only at the hands of those who make the bond. Yes some other powers can pressure the bond but ultimately it's the partners that break it. And that is as good as a promise or a vow can ever be. We should realize how few things in this world that can stand firm at the hand of time or the physical reality around us. Which to some is the only reality. In our cynical world the act of love has been corroded, su³³³³ion and skepticism has forced many to edge away from the mere word of love. A word that is now shadowed by another four letter word, where love has melodic vowel carrying it like a song the word fuck has sharp edges and its companion"do you want to fuck" hits like a hard, invisible jab from the mouth that speaks it. Passionate loving can equal hard fucking but hard fucking does not always translate into passionate loving. The words do you want to love has now an ugly edged shadow known as the word fuck. And fucking is conceived as unloveful. Fucking is what you do with a prostitute, as a man buying love you fuck, as a woman buying, you get fucked. In both cases the act of love is a tradable object and the nature of this act will not commit this couple into a unity, a bond of love. Of course love is transferable, that is what makes it so strong. In every true act, for both partners something wonderful is gained. The beautiful sentence of "what you give is what you get" is the reason the act of love is a sacred one. You get what you give and the euphoria of getting so many spiritual, emotional, physical and sexual stimulants is heightened on by the fact that in this transfer you have had a prominent part, you deserve this. This addition to an equal measure between both partners is a mirror shared between the two, reflecting not the actions, because man and woman do not act in the same way during sex but rather the affection of thoughts, touch and emotions. It is not a science, measure by tools, but nevertheless it is accurate, some would argue as much if not more than our science.