I love to hear his whispers and moans as he rocks back and forth, ball bearings and pistons driving his hips in unimaginable spirals and thrusts.

He loves burying his warmth in mine. I love his sweat running down my back and in rivulets down my heaving sides.

I love him enough to let him do this. I lay silent, my hips habitually matching the movement of his loins. I wonder too why he hasn’t noticed, for at least a year, why this is the only position I manipulate both our bodies into.

Finally, after about thirty minutes of his gentle assault, he lays still, heart pounding, waiting for his blood to drain for a comfortable exit.

While he cools down, I still burn, I’m in pure agony. I don’t have the heart to tell him my back surgery didn’t work. I don’t have the heart to tell him, through the five pre-sex pain pills I’ve secretly taken, he feels like a slug and sounds like a dying cow.

For the next three days, I do walk funny, grimacing in pain, which he proudly uses to boost his ego.