She has her reasons for fucking

‘You know what Ross? A reason I’m fucking you is you remind me of my father.’
‘Christ...’ But this doesn’t stop Ross, Christ.
‘You remind me of my father. A lot.’
‘Jesus...Yes, you are a passionate spirit, a free lover of men, and the salt of this earth too...But I think you’ll come to a bad end.’
Yes, he means it. It is probably true.
She shifts herself, trying to hold him, asks, ‘Oh, well...don’t we all? You ever been on speed, Ross?’
‘Speed, huh?’
‘Uh huh, speed. See, I belong to the Fast Generation and we were raised on speed…Speed gets you back real fast. Great for fucking.’
‘Is that right?’

(3) Sexual Phases of the Moon

Fucking her—yes, fucking her—on Machu Picchu was a man who had staggered out of a desert and toppled into an oasis, gulping water; but by Hong Kong fucking her was a singles bar sophisticate, ordering his fourth Martini, shaken not stirred.
What sick, sick mania—what sexual phases of the moon—seemingly require a man to sleep in a different bed every night?
Is he already bored?
God...surely not!

(2) Sexual Phases of the Moon

But as early as the Lima Sheraton or the airport—after returning from Machu Picchu—and certainly by Hawaii—she detected a change in their lovemaking. His throat never again rasped with quite the naked, helpless, desolate rawness of Machu Picchu, when, locked together, they overlooked the Urubamba River and he came inside her...
The hard, rasping kind of gasp that once rattled around his throat at Machu Picchu was by Hong Kong an easy, honey smooth sigh of sheerest satisfaction. And he was back in control.
But, God, could it have been as early as the Lima Sheraton?
Surely not!
God, God, surely not!
No...Nature surely cannot be that cruel, so unfeeling, that ruthless. Is pitiable man cursed and condemned to this? Pitiable, pitiable man.
Bored aleady!