Symmonds details hookups in book

He placed her carefully like a large terra-cotta urn and skillfully set about his work, as concentrated as a specialist restorer focused on her intricate finish, as if she wasn't even there. A tug here and her singlet fell to her waist. He tilted her head back to get under her chin, and his thumbs on her jaw and her throat and her chest moved swiftly, smoothing the skin as if it was quick-drying clay.

They no longer felt the cold. Their blood was flowing so fast in their veins that she tore off her spikes and so did he. There was no more pain; knees and back were pressed into the Mondo track, but that became part of their pleasure, completing it. She knew that she was close, but it was still a very remote feeling, because she was entirely connected to the world: her body and his body mingled with the rubber and grass, with life and death. She remained in that state for as long as possible, while some part of her was vaguely conscious that she was doing things she had never done before. What she was feeling, though, was the bringing together once more of herself and the meaning of life; it was a return to the garden of Eden; it was the moment when Eve was reabsorbed into Adam's body and the two halves became Creation.

At last, she could no longer control the world around her, her five senses seemed to break free and she wasn't strong enough to hold on to them. As if struck by a sacred bolt of lightning, she unleashed them, and the world, the track, the aluminum curb, the sandy jump pit, the water of the steeplechase pit, the hurdles, all disappeared, and in their place appeared a vast golden light, which grew and grew until it touched the most distant star in the galaxy.

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He placed her carefully like a large terra-cotta urn and skillfully set about his work, as concentrated as a specialist restorer focused on her intricate finish, as if she wasn't even there. A tug here and her singlet fell to her waist. He tilted her head back to get under her chin, and his thumbs on her jaw and her throat and her chest moved swiftly, smoothing the skin as if it was quick-drying clay.

They no longer felt the cold. Their blood was flowing so fast in their veins that she tore off her spikes and so did he. There was no more pain; knees and back were pressed into the Mondo track, but that became part of their pleasure, completing it. She knew that she was close, but it was still a very remote feeling, because she was entirely connected to the world: her body and his body mingled with the rubber and grass, with life and death. She remained in that state for as long as possible, while some part of her was vaguely conscious that she was doing things she had never done before. What she was feeling, though, was the bringing together once more of herself and the meaning of life; it was a return to the garden of Eden; it was the moment when Eve was reabsorbed into Adam's body and the two halves became Creation.

At last, she could no longer control the world around her, her five senses seemed to break free and she wasn't strong enough to hold on to them. As if struck by a sacred bolt of lightning, she unleashed them, and the world, the track, the aluminum curb, the sandy jump pit, the water of the steeplechase pit, the hurdles, all disappeared, and in their place appeared a vast golden light, which grew and grew until it touched the most distant star in the galaxy.

We make love perched on the steeple barrier, the danger of falling into the water pit adding a frisson of danger that only magnifies our excitement. When I touch her, my fingers don't question what she is. My body knows who she is. She is unknown and known. There is a pattern to her, a shape I understand, a private geometry that numbers mine. She is a maze where I got lost years ago, and now find the way out. She is the missing map. She is the place that I am. She begins to chafe from the rough coating of the barrier and I lovingly place my compression socks between her and the offending roughness. In my mind the bell rings for the last lap, and I begin straining, straining, hoping to pass before hitting the curve. I catch her rhythm, pulling and releasing, cradling and crushing; pushing up through my fingers with each swing, like a large female hammer thrower spinning and heaving in her wind-up. Her sounds shift from moans to grunts, insistent, almost desperate cries from the throat. I begin my patented kick for home, but she's ahead of me heaving in her passion out into lane three, blocking me. We gather ourselves for a final effort and leaning at the line collapse in mutual pleasure.