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*Warning: naughty language ahead!

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Some people thrive in relationships with rhythm. We are those people.

She comes over on Thursdays and we cook dinner. We cook together, eat together, and talk about patriarchy, Netflix, and road construction.

She does most of the cooking and I do most of the dishes.

We write. She writes about recovery or strength or fortitude, and I write about love or sex or racism. She reads my writing before I submit for publication and I read hers hours later, after it’s already been seen by hundreds or thousands of eyes.

We walk or drive to give our conversations a versatile backdrop. We laugh and listen to music, and let the breeze blow through our hair or fight its way between clasped fingers. We don’t touch much in public, but sometimes I kiss her hard. I kiss her so hard that she gets lost in loving me for long enough to forget the generational trauma of shame surrounding public displays of affection.

Then, night comes.

At night, we fuck. It’s wild, raw, powerful, heavy, hard, and passionate. We drip with sweat and utter primal grunts, as my fingers interlock in her hair and her nails carve rivers in the canyons of my back. Furniture is rearranged and the paintings, which usually hang on the wall, seek refuge on the safety of the floor.

Sometimes we find ourselves intertwined on a bed with no sheets, panting, dying of thirst in an ocean of bliss.

Make no mistake; our violence is well-matched and consensual. Our loving as sensual as it is intense. We are the storm that shakes the tree and breaks branches, but never destroys the roots. We shake loose the old and dying, and emerge from our love anew and radiant.

We find ourselves days later wearing bruises and scratches born of the strength and grasping, which always holds us together through the untamable tempest of modern life.

Sometimes, ours is the love that comes out only after dark. Our animalistic dance is born in the same fertile forests of intensity that have driven the most stoic to abandon their reason among the heart-wrenching lines of long-lost love letters. Our passions run wild, fueled by the same seeds from which treason and valor and revolution spring forth.

We rage against our bonds and set fire to our inhibitions. Drunk on the feral scent of sex which drips from our pores and begets our unencumbered bliss, we fall, eventually into a heap of well-satisfied flesh and bone, defined less by our physical bodies and more by the palpable energy of love, which fills our bed, our room, and our universe.

At night we fuck.

But in the morning, we make love.

Mornings are for facing the enormity of the day ahead with mutual support and compassion. Mornings are for coffee and love and breakfast. But it’s all the same.

I wake first. Sun shines through our windows and the birdsongs rouse me into my desire. Rolling over I find her sleepy frame and navigate the mountains of her ribs, pulling taut her skin as smooth as the desert horizon.

Her body is my wilderness and I take my time, never failing to stop and stoop in solemn admiration of the tiniest flower or the humblest stream.

She wakes slowly and my hands breathe life into her body. Subtly she presses against me, yielding into the space I hold for us as her man. We work slowly but waste no time. Fingers, lips, and tongues explore the secret places reserved just for each other. Anticipation builds—each movement placing another log on the fire.

On mornings when the air outside our bed is too cold, we wrap covers around us and move like a ship on the ocean, swaying to the rhythm of the music our bodies make together.

We kiss, we hold hands, we lock foreheads, and we exhale into the sweetness of having each other. When we finish, we take up the space of vast forests, and most times, we fall back asleep.

Starting our days with sweetness brings grace to the chaos of life. Connecting deeply, intimately, before we part gives us the fortitude to withstand the enormity of living two separate lives. This time spent enraptured by the immense power of sweet and innocent intimacy is necessary to our rhythm.

It’s necessary in the same way our bodies demand the wild, after-dark ruckus. As dynamic humans we require both varieties of sexual expression to feel deeply fulfilled, and we recognize the inherent power in each.

It’s the diversity of our intimacy which brings balance to our lives and allows us, as one couple, to hold space for the myriad emotional fireworks we handle throughout the day. It’s what keeps us engaged and breathes strength into our foundation.

Our intimacy is the veritable playground of vulnerable expression in all its forms—and it’s the reason we work together.

Our nights are for fucking, and our mornings are for making love. It’s the great paradox of our aware, embodied relationship.

And we love it that way.