Anybody can write boring sex.

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I believe it's easy to write boring sex—that which is mechanical, objectified, full of faked voices, lacking gentle touch or rough kisses, and ending in a one-sided climax. 
Both turn over and never meet eyes again for the rest of the time.

How distasteful and unpassionate it sounds; nevertheless, it is uglier in the act.

Sex is one of the most intimate and passionate arts of human physical experience. It needs to be enjoyed boldly and fully, not in a sober manner—it should be like being drunk on the heavenly nectar of a trance. 
Each touch has to delicately explore the curves and rises like attempting an archaeological discovery. 
Each kiss should leave the lips throbbing like a heart on a cardio machine. 
Each moan needs to wake the devil from its sleep and ask in awe, "Where the hell is this coming from?"
Nipples sensitized and baptized with a tongue tip. 
The bones and curves of the waist kissed so softly that the diaphragm pulls up. 
The thighs held so tightly that they make the skin burn.

But wait...

it's easier to write boring sex.

See this:

Cold night,
warm light, 
Bedside. 
She sighs, 
time flies. 
Clock ticks,
Sweat drips. 
The breasts rising like ocean tides, 
one push, two push, three push and pull,
heavy breaths, then... silence. 
Both lie aside, the boy asleep, the girl in dreams. 
She wakes up and fixes her dress. 
Shaking the dust or shaking the past...
fixing the dress or fixing her heart.
trying to drink down what happened so far.

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