The Weekly Mindfuck: Rhythm

Everyone knows that moment. Prior to it, the sex is good—but it feels restrained. Marginally calculated. Perhaps not by inhibition, but unfamiliarity. Tense muscles, new touches, something liberating yet still slightly off beat. And then suddenly, like a key turning in a lock, there's a sudden rhythm. Your movements are in tandem, thrust met by thrust at the exact same moment, so well-timed it might as well be a song. 

It feels similar to mind-reading—you begin imagining a moment only to find that it happens before you can collect your thoughts cohesively enough to understand what it is, exactly, that you want. A mattress squeaking and shaking, breathing somehow both deep and ragged, words and motions so in sync it might as well be rehearsed. It's the kind of sex that happens late at night, and when you wake up in the morning, you're never quite sure if it actually happened or if you imagined the whole thing.

But does it really matter?