About ten years ago I stood deathwatch by the hospital bed of an emaciated and broken man who had the appearance of a denizen of a Nazi concentration camp, as he sweated, gasped, and struggled for breath, fevered and disease-ridden by AIDS.
The partners with whom he had enjoyed many a rousing and stimulating physical sensation were nowhere to be found. Presumably they were out carousing the gay bars and public toilets in search of more physical sensation. Perhaps they were enjoying quiet dinners with their latest known lovers as each dreamed secretly of the excitement of another physical sensation with an anonymous partner.
The body as it approaches death strugggles instinctively, mightily, achingly, painfully, ferociously against the black night of its unconsciousness. Memories of physical pleasure, sensation, and quiet dinners with a lovers are long forgotten. Death comes with raspy shuddering finality as the afflicted flesh breath out its last and looses its last desperate hold on the world. Within twenty minutes the body, though cold, is still covered by droplets of sweat, as if someone had sprinkled the corpse with mist sprayer.
There is nothing good, healthy, wholesome, or praiseworthy about sexual practices that bring a body--owned by God--to such an end.