Fucking Ayn Rand.

From Nathaniel Branden's "My Years with Ayn Rand", pp. 139-140, on fucking Ayn Rand:

In the realm of sex, I knew her as thoroughly as someone I had been intimately involved with for years. I had penetrated her consciousness in every way I possibly could since first reading "The Fountainhead", so the actual act of sex felt almost like a continuation of the same endeavor. The desire to 'know' her in all conceivable senses was central to my interactions with her. It was as if we had been engaged in foreplay for four years -- since the evening in March 1950 when we first met. Later, Ayn told me that was exactly how she felt.

I was conscious of two different responses to our first sexual experience. My body felt completely unastonished, completely serene, as if what was now happening was the most natural thing in the world. My mind, in contrast, had flashes of excitement and disorientation at the thought 'I am now *sleeping with Ayn*." The two perspectives were like musical themes running in counterpoint, yielding a result more thrilling than either could produce by itself -- a high level of excitement devoid of any trace of anxiety. I believed I did see a touch of apprehension in Ayn, but it was a kind one welcomes because it makes one feel more alive, makes the moment more momentous.

She made love with the same single-tracked concentration with which she did everything else; nothing existed but the moment, our bodies, this sensation, and then the next. What was electrifying was that in her gentlest, most sensual touch, I could feel the full force of her personality , as if the voltage of her mind and the voltage of her flesh were one.

Watching her eyes watching me was aphrodisiacal. I knew that what she wanted most was not my tenderness but my aggressiveness, my willingness to do anything I felt like doing, without asking and without hesitating. She wanted me to be a master, to use her language, exercising his rights over his property. This, and this alone, allowed the female in her to emerge fully. Because I had no unusual sexual predilections and no interest in giving or receiving pain and every interest in giving and receiving pleasure, our lovemaking was uncomplicated happiness.

That I could bring such joy to a woman twenty-five years my senior, a woman I admired so passionately, nourished my sexual self-esteem. That she could evoke an intense response in a man so many years younger, a man she perceived as the incarnation of her values, nourished hers...

In the bedroom there was no split between the novelist and the woman. She was sensual, passionate, uninhibited, aggressive, submissive, strong, helpless, and magnificently greedy. She made it abundantly clear that her most ardent desire was to be reduced to a state of total surrender, which meant that I was free to release my own aggressive energy. We were like two prisoners let loose.

Nothing we could say or do could frighten or overwhelm the other. Nothing was too much. Whatever one gave, the other welcomed. Whatever one wanted, the other provided. We embraced sex as a person embraces oxygen after being underwater for too long.

'What's happening to me?' Ayn would say. 'You're turning me into an animal.' And I would grin mockingly and answer, 'Really? What were you before?' 'A mind,' she would say. And I would reply, 'Really? Do you have a mind? Who ever told you that?'

...