Magic happened the day Clara came to the conclusion that being well fucked should be a constitutional right. Moreover, it should be unconstitutional, punishable by imprisonment (or something worse), to have to engage in low-quality sex. She thought this while her boyfriend, Gonzalo, attempted maneuvers under the sheets like a battleship navigating an Atlantic storm. Clumsy, struggling to make headway, and on the verge of springing a leak.

"Not like that, Gonza, please.", she said while strategically placing his hand between her legs. She accompanied the gesture with enough instructions for him to understand what was needed of him, which she hoped sounded pedagogical, with a tender tone, but became a clear-cut list of orders.

"Left to right. Never from top to bottom. Fast, but not too fast. Don't stop even if you get tired. Whatever happens, in this room or outside, don't stop until I tell you to." Clara thought that maybe she had offended Gonzalo with her dictatorship of allowed and forbidden sexual movements. Still, Gonzalo didn't seem to notice her tone, so concentrated was he on trying to understand and execute the mechanics of his girlfriend’s demands.

With his back against the padded headboard and still embracing her, Gonzalo sits up and rests the palm of his hand between Clara’s legs. The middle and ring fingers hover over the small vertical triangle of exposed, pink flesh. Gonzalo hesitates but tries to convey confidence. Clara feels his imposter syndrome coming through, which in this case is simply an adequate description more than a syndrome.

Gonzalo imagines himself as a forward taking the last penalty kick in a soccer World Cup. He envisions a (not at all friendly) match that pits him against Carla's vagina. He sees himself as Messi, preparing to take that penalty, and Clara guarding the goal of her sex. Carla, not thinking about soccer, but about her constitutional right to one or more orgasms, writhes impatiently in Gonza's arms.

Gonzalo sets himself in motion, first awkwardly, but a few ouches and ohs from Clara indicate the range of movement that will turn the mission into an unprecedented success. Unprecedented for himself, at least. After a couple of minutes, his forearm becomes an intense tingling mess, and Clara's breathing turns into silence, a soft and delicate silence. Gonzalo sighs with temporary relief and prays to whoever the god of orgasms may be that his forearm, ligaments, and joints don't fail him now that he’s so close to success. Clara sinks little by little, interlocking her legs with Gonzalo's, turning the loving couple into a mass of tremors and muscle spasms.

Finally, Carla breaks her silence with a hoarse and animalistic moan accompanied by a watery pulse. She ends up completely unraveling, changing her state from solid to liquid and molding herself to Gonzalo's body, cuddling in his arms like a cat in a box that's too small to fit her. Gonzalo, who had never heard his girlfriend make those kinds of sounds or turn into a liquified blob, assumes he has found the combo to defeat the final boss which is Carla's orgasm to him.

Postcoital oxytocin sweetens Gonzalo’s mind for a few minutes, but a dark thought clouds his head: Carla would have had access to this information for a long time, surely, since their first time. And yet, she would have retained the cheat code to defeat the boss.

"Why didn't you explain how to do it right before?", but Clara doesn't respond. In fact, Clara wasn’t even in the same temporal plane as Gonzalo or the rest of the mortals. She is in an undefined, ethereal space, accessible only through the female orgasm. Experts in Orgasmic geography have not reached an agreement to precisely locate this magical place on the map. Some claim it is in the prefrontal lobe, others in the long-gone Classic Greece.

Finally, Carla returns to the astrophysical plane of the here and now and sits up next to Gonzalo, who continues to embrace her but with a suspicion he struggles to conceal.

"Because guys take this kind of thing the wrong way."

"That's not true, I don't know where you get this from, but it's a lie."

"Okay, sorry. Don't get mad, not now."

"No more secrets. I want to learn everything."

The period of time that followed that night would go down in the annals of pleasure if they existed. Clara and Gonzalo become the first couple to clearly communicate their sexual needs, limits, and whims with the pure intention of satisfying them and improving their sex life. Fucking well and being well fucked, as Clara's constitution dictates.