In and Out
Honestly? I'm never quelled. I've got a perpetually unfinished sentence of a sex drive, and it's balanced precariously off the edge of a cliff.
When you're as proficient as I am, when you've taken more than a keen interest in perfecting something, you become acutely aware of all its manifestations.
After a while you begin to chase that full stop, but all you ever find are ellipsis, to be continued, and just like when you masturbate and orgasm eludes you, you can't quite get there.
And maybe that's it. Maybe that's the point. That this ever flowing river never actually meets the cliff edge and becomes the waterfall which merges into that tranquil lagoon at the bottom. That somehow we have to learn to go with the river's flow and be satisfied with no real release.
I see the binding of sex and spirit so clearly; one ultimate function, two apparently contrasting natures, and there's nothing makes me feel closer to whatever force created this whole thing than the feel of granite inside me, waxing and waning, ebbing and flowing, inhaling and exhaling, thrusting in and out - the movement of the universe.