There is a description in a child’s science book of the act of love that makes it all quite clear and helps when one begins to forget. It starts with affection between a man and a woman. The blood goes to their genitals as they kiss and caress each other, this swelling creates a desire in these parts to be touched further, the man’s penis becomes larger and quite stiff and the woman’s vagina moist and slippery. The penis can now be pushed into the woman’s vagina and the parts move “comfortably and pleasantly” together until the man and woman reach orgasm, “not necessarily at the same time.” The article ends, however, with a cautionary emendation of the opening statement about affection: nowadays many people make love, it says, who do not love each other, or even have any affection for each other, and whether or not this is a good thing we do not yet know.
She pulls off her panties and stands before me with open legs, protruding pelvis, and slightly bent knees. Her rough, swollen tongue fills my mouth. Her belly pushed against my dick as if she were knocked up. The stiff little wads of her vaginal lips keep springing together like two halves of a rubber ball. She moans. Her abdomen works like a machine. She shpritzes and shpritzes. Our knees buckle. I shove my dick into her from behind, right up to my nuts, and I writhe as if I were touching a high-voltage line—while she, impaled, and with her tongue hanging out, rattles like a slaughtered calf.
Klaus Kinski’s autobiography All I Need Is Love