Now piercèd is her virgin zone;
She feels the foe within it.
She hears a broken amorous groan,
The panting lover's fainting moan,
Just in the happy minute.

Then, if to make your ruin more,
You'll peevishly be coy,
Die with the scandal of a whore
And never know the joy.

O.K, but wash it first....

I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a hot-gushing, butt-cramping, gut hosing orgasm.

The religion of orgasm: utilitarianism projected into sex life; efficiency versus indolence; coition reduced to an obstacle to be got past as quickly as possible in order to reach an ecstatic explosion, the only true goal of love-making and of the universe.

Life's Irony;The weaker vessels reach orgasm first.