It seems to me, and for me, that sex tends toward two different categories:
Fucking for Fun: almost as an 'activity', something to do, and Making Love: which, all squicky feelings about the terminology aside, exists for me as a heart connection- deeply emotional, and frankly, rare.
Fucking for fun is certainly fun, and while I haven't completely reconciled my sluttish desires with more demure (pre)judgements I have about myself, I find it satisfying in a convivial, and also in a selfish way. Fuck me, use me, allow me to be objectified, and let me objectify in return.
And Making Love? Seriously? It represents a reverent, holy place.
Occasionally, they cross over and the fucking is both deeply fun and truly-madly connected. Every touch is a discovery, every instant is a whole pure moment, every breath a full lifespan. And the reverence is both real, and lighthearted.
That's grace. It's the 'zone' or maybe the 'zen'. It's a happy place, and when it all comes together it feels like a serendipitous event. I can't pursue it into existence, I can only hope to be aware enough, available enough, open enough, to run toward it when the door opens.
And that's really the hard part, right?
The 'heart opening' yoga poses often make me smile, and stretch, and think, a little self-consciously, "what the fuck, you only live once".
Opening up is the hardest part, knowing that pain is always an option when my tender bits are on display. And the pain is sometimes part of the experience, an indicator that I'm still alive. It's easy to shy away from that, and let mediocre be enough.
So anyway, my word of the day is grace, sprinkled with resilience, and studded with "what the fuck, you only live once".