Sometimes I have porn sex when I’m making porn.
Sometimes I’m making love when I’m making porn.
Sometimes when I’m making love in a private bedroom I start having porn sex.
Sometimes when I’m making porn I’m thinking about what the real meaning to the poem “Kubla Khan” and I’m still really wet.
Sometimes when I’m fucking in the bedroom I have a brief interlude when I mentally memorize my posture and position so I can do it again when I’m making porn.
Sometimes I make porn with my personal partners.
Sometimes my porn co-stars become personal partners.
Sometimes I can’t come and I don’t mind at all.
Sometimes I can’t come and I’m so frustrated and tense I cry.
Sometimes I’m blindsided by an orgasm I didn’t see coming at all and I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me.
Sometimes my orgasm is lazy, hiding somewhere in the peripheral vision of my sexuality lurking about but not popping up when I want it to.
Sometimes I don’t want to come anymore because I’ve had one too many and I simply won’t be able to drive home until the shaking and the delerium has worn off. Unlike drinking, no one ever seems to cut me off at the sexual bar.
Sometimes I imagine my body as a speakeasy that requires a special password. And a fedora.
Sometimes I wish I could have sex without exerting any energy at all.
Sometimes I help myself to an extra slice of chocolate cake with the mental promise to fuck it off later in the evening. I hate gyms. I love fucking. I exercise by choosing activities I like and that I know I’ll do.
Sometimes I have sex.
Sometimes I am Miss Maggie Mayhem. Sometimes I am Miss Maggie Meek. Sometimes I am Miss Maggie. Sometimes I’m Maggie.
Sometimes they can’t utter anything at all, not my name nor their own.