Linda Mallory was the postmodern fuck. She was self-conscious to the point of distraction, counted her orgasms and felt none of them. She worried about how she looked while making love, about how her expression changed when she started to come, whether she was too tight, too loose, too dry, too wet, too loud, too quiet and she found the need to express these concerns during the course of the event.

“Does my hair look nice spread out across the pillow?” she asked.

“It looks fine, Linda.”

“Am I moving all right, too fast, too slow?”

“Move however it feels good to you.”

— Percival Evertt, Erasure