Staring at the fabled beast, all smooth and glistening, I had to make a move before she noticed something was off. I tried to eat her, but somehow it turned out to be more complex in real life than in the movies. I started flailing my tongue like a thirsty puppy, but after a few minutes she gently pulled me up by my head.

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"I want to feel you inside," she moaned.

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As I put on the condom, I at no point revealed that I had never done this before. Any of this. Now that I think of it, maybe I should have, but in retrospect I should have done a lot of things differently in life: pick a different college, for example.

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I dove in and was overwhelmed by waves of joy and fear. Oh, sex was good! Sex is always good, even when it is bad. I was so freaked out that I couldn't finish for a half hour; a trait I would gladly repeat nowadays, if I only knew how. Through her moans, she complimented me on my sexual prowess, a note of surprise in her voice.

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"You can fuck for so long, I never had it like this," she stammered.

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I was just trying not to die on top of her. Yes, this was the ride of her life, and I was a horse that didn't even know where it was running. Like my first poker game or my first Frisbee throw, it was a surprisingly good performance. Perhaps therein lies the key. Once we get into the game, we start thinking too much. Maybe we should just act, as I did. I followed my nature. I heeded the call. I didn't contemplate it. 

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After about an hour of humping she asked for a break. She put her hand on my chest. She told me that this was the most intense sex she'd ever had, and that I was so much better than her boyfriend.

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"Boyfriend? You have a boyfriend? Thanks for not squeezing in that info between "I like your work" and "fuck me.""

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She just smiled and said that I was silly. That was good enough for me. Apology accepted. So we did it again, this time from behind. Ah, young romance...

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During our next break she kissed me passionately and repeated how experienced I was in bed. At that moment I could have said the truth, but my bloated ego simply thanked the Academy for the Oscar. After all, this was the Super Bowl of sex, and I had just scored two touchdowns. Instead, I "admitted" that I had actually slept with all of my female fans—which in a way actually wasn't a lie at all. I told her how we poets have this special connection to the female soul and how, as time passed, I had simply evolved into the sexual juggernaut she had just experienced. Amazed by my seemingly countless encounters with the female breed, she, almost shyly, suggested that we do this more often. I agreed with a poker face. She kissed me a few more times while searching for her clothes. For that brief moment, I actually felt that my poetry was the best ever written. I walked her to the door and kissed her goodbye. I remained outside and watched that perfect ass slowly dissolve on the horizon. Then I went back into the house and listened to Nina Simone’s "Feeling Good" on repeat until the neighbors complained.