Galaxies Between Us

Sex, stardust, and the cosmic union we can’t explain 🌌

There’s a line I said the other night that stuck with me:

pushing inside you feels like two galaxies colliding.

That’s the only way I can describe it.

Something bigger than skin and bigger than the body, like the universe itself decided to set off fireworks every time we meet like that.

It reminded me of something from way back to the first couple days we knew each other when someone made a joke about the “Big Bang.” Not the science version, but when two people orgasm together.

My now wife laughed and said it sounded statistically unlikely. I kind of chuckled and told her not to be so sure.

The next night, let’s just say she ate those words… and a bit more.

It doesn’t happen every single time, but circling back to her original point, it’s not exactly a statistical anomaly with us either.

There’ve been times where we finish within seconds of each other, and other times where it lines up so perfectly it feels like the merging of two galaxies or a full-on supernova.

When every pulse and every release hits in sync, it’s the most unexplainably cosmic, bigger-than-us feeling. I don’t even think there’s words in human language that comes close to capturing it.

But it isn’t always about finishing.

9.5 times out of 10, if we’re fucking, we’re both finishing, especially her, multiple times. But sometimes, life hits different. You’re tired, you’re stretched thin, maybe a little lit, maybe just worn down. In those moments, the goal shifts.

I remember one night mid–tax season chaos, after two straight days of solo parenting, I was physically spent.

She wanted me and I wanted her, but my body was running on fumes. I made her finish a couple of times, and then I slowed down. She asked if everything was okay, and I just blurted it out without even thinking, “Everything’s fine. I’m just super tired. I don’t think I can finish. I just needed to be inside you.”

She started crying. Because it wasn’t about the orgasm. It was about being one again and reconnecting after being stretched so thin. The safety of her body was enough.

A few weeks later, the roles reversed.

She had just gone through a brutal family betrayal, one that hit both of us hard, and we were a couple drinks in, trying to take the edge off.

Neither of us had much hope of finishing, but she looked at me and said “If you can just get hard and get inside me, I just want to be one with you.”

So I did.

& somehow, I managed to stay hard enough for us to have a long, vulnerable conversation about the love we share, all while moving slowly inside her.

When I finally pulled out and went to the bathroom, I realized she had apparently been using me as a tampon for the last ten minutes. I guess the brutal stress from the weeks prior messed with her cycle.

We both burst out laughing. It was sacred and ridiculous all at once.

Sometimes sex is galaxies colliding, and sometimes it’s just two tired humans holding each other through the storm.

Both are sacred. Both are intimacy. Both matter.

Maybe that’s why it all feels so cosmic.

I’ve always believed in the idea that we are all stardust. Every single thing here… us, this earth, the universe, all originated from the same cosmic matter.

Maybe that’s why this connection feels so familiar and so eternal, because in some way we’ve been entangled together since the dawn of time.

Energy doesn’t die, it just transforms. So if you believe in the idea that we are stardust, it’s not a stretch at all to think of sex in that same cosmic way.

When I say sex is cosmic, I mean it literally.

It’s stardust kissing stardust. It’s galaxies merging into one.

It’s the Big Bang happening again and again, after dark.

Sex is stardust. Supernovic. Celestial. Ecliptic.