Going For It

When I take the plunge,
hoping for something that lasts a little longer than before,

I rub from the base of my bulbous crown to the rigid end of my
desire,
and grow.

Now, erect with painful purpose,
fully throbbing, bloodily engorged,
it's the usual, rapid dagger thrusts.

Holding from behind,
(as much holding on, as holding off),
I push and pull at her.

I reach a point where I'm in the balance,
not sure that things will last their rubber course,
fearing the softening fade.

Then, suddenly, I feel her deeper,
harsher pulse,
and sense her cushion out.

She squeezes out her lusted gasps in patterns -
tears, one might have thought them in another time,
but I know them now to be the signs she shows

of losing control, of passion,
of sex,
of her, coming.

I tighten, tense, shove into her,
grab her breasts
and then I'm there,

shuddering in jetting streams,
groaning loudly, then buckling,
the pressure gone.

So. This is love? Making it?
One, short, ugly syllable.
Fuck.