He and I have fucked every single night we’ve been together. About 86 nights, in many different places and moods, but all of them ended with us having sex.

Only once did I not want to fuck. I was tired, sore. I wanted to curl up and go to sleep. So I did, and he held me while I did.

We started reminiscing of past fucks.

“Remember that time where I blew you in the cabana of the Beverly Hills Hotel while you smoked a cigar?”

“Remember that time in Buenos Aries where you pushed the floor -3 elevator button and we ended up in a storage room where I fucked you on top of a teetering pile of 25 old hotel mattresses that were stacked around an empty pool.”

“Remember at the Chateau Marmont when I was doing ballet in the room and after I finished my lesson, I took the top of my leotard down and gave you a perfect, flat-backed blow job?”

“Remember that night I fucked you on our balcony in Venice, you were glistening with sweat in the moonlight and all the gondoliers looked up.”

“Remember that hand job I gave you under the blankets in first class?”

“Remember that time in Los Angeles where we fell off the bed while fucking, and kept going without a beat?”

“Remember that weekend at the Chateau Marmont where I had a two-day streak of wanting to be spanked during sex so I kept doing the most horrible things and looking up at you with a pout?”

“Remember that night we were staying in your friend’s Richard Neutra house, with its all-white modernist bedroom, and upon seeing it, you immediately got your period. We couldn’t get blood anywhere, so we spent the entire time fucking in the bathtub?”

“Remember in the Cayman Islands when we had gone skinny dipping at night and were fucking on the beach outside our bungalow — we looked down, and there was another couple doing the exact same thing 15 feet away?”

By that time, I was aroused. I still didn’t want to have sex.

“Let me just put your cock inside me,” I said.

“Yes, that’s not sex,” he said.

Soon, we were having sex. I read a New York Times article today that said, for the brain, remembering is like doing. Which explains, I suppose, how our mere memories made me so wet, despite all the protests of my body.

I love how we’ve created our own private porn movie, to be played back anytime, to arouse us, and I love how I’m wet as I’m writing this.

Him: Nagligivaget

Me: An Eskimo woman you’re fucking just taught you that word, didn’t she?

Him: Nanookisa has just gone out to get some whale oil to cook polar bear steaks. How did you know?

Me: When you’re in civilization you send email. Also, you never love me more than when you’re fucking someone else.

Him: How did you ever come to know me this well?

Me: Just be sure to use a whale intestine condom. Will fit you better than wild boar.