If the definition of ****** is “little death”then
I have died many times.
Languishing in a hazy afterglow of pleasure.
Limbs weak and rendered temporarily useless...like rubber.
Skin flushed  rose, lips full and red.
Smooth contours of breast and hip and collar bone....
Luminous in their beauty....
Illuminated beneath  the watchful gaze of the moon as she peeps through the hastily drawn curtain.
****** to the ****** and wild beauty of fluid bonding.
I have “died “ many times.
And yet I smile an indulgent knowing smile.
Soon I will experience my “little death”once again.