What comes to mind is another word normally reserved for something we do. It’s used as a verb describing an act, or, in many abused cases, spoken as obscenity. Other times it’s used as an adverb. Safe to say, the meaning varies with the circumstance in which it is used, ranging from blatant expression of vulgarity to urgent requests used in the heat of passion. You know it. You speak it when you want it. You beg for it to happen. It's "fuck", or "fucking" if you choose.

In the context of your preferred use of the word it implies action. "Fuck me," you say, or "Roll onto your back, I want to ride you – want to fuck your cock." While I love it when you say things like that to me, I feel there’s more to what’s really being said, some other meaning beyond the physical act. To me, it’s more than an expression uttered when pure bliss controls everything. To that end, I propose a different view; a different definition for it does not do justice to merely what we do. It’s not simply an expression of blissful lust; it's what we become. We become Fuck. That’s it; when we’re together, we become Fuck.

Fuck is connected to everything about you. It begins when I see you. It’s present when I hear your sweet voice. It’s part of my saying "baby" to you. It makes me feel naked. Naked with you is Fuck. Saying it makes me feel like I’m naked and with you – naked with you straddling my hips – naked and watching you brush bursting nipples across my chest, teasing me, pinning me down, forcing me to watch them slide, waiting for me to beg for the chance to give them a generous licking. Can you see my point? It’s what I see in my mind. It’s what I remember of a moment when you cried out. It swarms my soul when I here Van Morrison. How can I begin to describe what is the totality of our Fuck?

What is this I write to you today? Is this a love letter? Is it an expression of longing and unending aches, or can we agree it’s an expression of Fuck? It’s a gift. Fuck is a gift of vision. Right this instant; I'm half paralyzed with images of you astride my hips, arching your back, grinding down on me as I hold your waist in my hands. Slender fingers spread evenly and nails flash with rich sex-red polish, grabbing at those delicious breasts, squeezing and kneading nipples I love so dearly. I can feel your hips rock with the slow rhythm defined by the selfishness we possess for such sweet pleasures. Rock me, lover, rock with slow steady perfection; the perfect sharing of Fuck.

Even from here, from this torturous distance, I can imagine your breathing. I know it must sound difficult, laboring under the full weight of your lust. Go ahead; touch your left breast. Pinch that ripe nipple between your thumb and forefinger. I know how swollen it must be. I know it’s aching to be touched – licked. Roll it while you squeeze. Give in. Slip into the same Fuck that pins me in my chair even now, some 700 miles away. I suspect there’s a woman-ache inside of you that I’ll never know; yet I’m convinced it mirrors the companion man-ache I know so very well. You know I want to slip into the warm, moist velvet between your thighs. I want it so badly it hurts. But I know you live with your own ache; an ache craving the thickness of my hard heat, demanding penetration to spread you wide and fill your empty space. It’s the same ache and yet it’s different. It’s Fuck. There is one prevailing truth. We want our Fuck. The source of our ache is Fuck. Slow sliding penetration is Fuck. The tender violence of animal thrusting is Fuck. Our craving is unified, consensus has been reached – we want to be consumed by slow, delicious Fuck.

I guess that’s the best way to describe the ache we each have; the ache that’s so different while simultaneously being the same. It’s a longing; a craving that’s driven by lust orchestrated midst the disarray of our raging desires. We can no longer consider it as something we do, because it is what we become. We become our Fuck. We both disappear into it. Our vibrations accelerate to the point we become invisible to the physical world, disappearing into the warm mist of perfected Fuck.

Where do we go? We go on a journey where we can see things that are otherwise invisible. Every sense we possess comes alive simply by looking into each other’s soul. That is where the vibrations of who we are become most pure. That is where we are truly naked in each other’s eyes. Do we not disappear when we look that deeply? Is it the two of us that disappear, or is it the world we live in? Or is it the worldly things we know that disappear? When it happens, I no longer can feel anything but you. I can no longer smell anything but the scent of you, the pungent, exhilarating aroma of our Fuck.

The air I breathe is like cool water poured into a fiery hot furnace. The exploding steam deafens me, as liquid of our joining collides with searing flames of our Fuck. I search through the silence of your parted lips waiting for you to draw a ragged breath, or is it to release the one that’s frozen in your chest, clenched in unrelenting passion, squeezed by the overpowering presence of Fuck? I love it when we go there together, to stand before what is Fuck. I love it when we linger in that place, because the rules of reality change. Nothing else matters when we are in the presence of our Fuck.

There is no point in fighting it, or saving it, or denying it, or using it sparingly, or even pretending it’s not always in the front of our minds. It’s there. Our Fuck is an absolute. Never can we call it something we do, for that would imply there is a beginning and an end. An absolute is a constant. It is always. It is as sure as the souls we willingly offer to it. We are consumed by it. Strangely, that consumption yields creation. Give becomes take. Taking becomes giving. This is the essence of our Fuck.

We talk of satisfying one another, of pleasing and being pleased. Plans are made to slow time down, to stop it from cheating us like it always does. We try to pretend Fuck is not present, but it is – always. We act as though normal things lovers do are easily within our reach, exempt from tender ravages of Fuck. Certainly, we can sit together and have a nice dinner, and maybe even enjoy a bottle of wine. True, we merely have to be together to find our happiness soaring. But the distraction is there. It’s always there; sitting with us – just the three of us - you, me, and our Fuck. It lives in our souls, and we fall prey to its predatory ways when we permit our eyes to linger upon each other. That's when it happens. That's when Fuck spoils meal plans, dilutes intoxicating effects of wine, and diverts whatever moment we attempt to share with a prelude – a prelude to entering its domain. There is no use to resist. Every instant in time is one tick closer to the journey, courtesy of Fuck – slippery, sliding, slickery Fuck. There is none better than what we capture as our own.

Even when walking with you I am not spared the pressure of its presence. It lives in me as an ever-present urge to touch you in some way; to press against you. Our hips touch with every step. My fingertips automatically trace the hollow of your back like iron drawn to a magnet. The invisible force of Fuck is constant. If hands do not touch, then shoulders are drawn to brush together, completing the circle that is drawn by the presence of Fuck.

Do you understand the implications, my love? Can you feel the torment of wantonness that boils within me? Does it not boil within you as well? It’s silly of me to ask these questions of you. They are at best, rhetorical. All of them. Yet still I ask, wanting to hear you tell me that you boil with the same torment, the same burning Fuck. I want to hear you say it. Saying it to my face is an essential part of our lust. Live it. Feel it. Speak it.

I'm waiting...

I'm wanting...

Tell me how you ache to be consumed slowly by the Fuck we share. Tell me how you crave going to that place it enables us to go. Submit to the addictive lure of it with me. Relinquish any hopes of maintaining control over your body. Relax into the erotic ride it offers. Embrace Fuck with me. Drink deeply of it. Permit yourself to slip away with me, to be transported to that place where nothing else matters. Explode with me into a million little pieces for it is then we find the true essence of fuck.