The male orgasm is like a tremor, halting eventually if not quickly, and in a single inhalation delivers into ecstasy then restfulness, exhausted.
But the female orgasm, initiated with an aching, is the beginning of a chasm of conflicted turns, that when it passes, her desires have only just been awakened. And instead of engendering fulfillment they consume her entirely with indescribable yearning, a passion for fierce imbuement, a screaming devotion that tosses and turns inflamed—take me completely com!plete!ly! please please please!—until the drive, subdued, evaporates in clarity of flight.
A satisfaction only in shattering, being consumed into existence.