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I wonder if I just need to get laid.
It’s tough being a writer of sex and not having sex. I might as well be a country singer and have my truck, my gun and my alcoholism pried from my warm, live hands. Or a gangsta rapper grown out of the ghetto and into the custom of money, fame and a giant walk-in closet for all of his very fine athletic footwear. Or some similar poet whose customary muse has up and left her when she stumbled and fell upon another lifestyle.
The truth is that I do miss fucking. I miss the smell and the touch and the feel and the taste. I miss having my hair pulled. I miss the clash of teeth like titans in the night. I miss the eldritch elastic pull when a lover’s cock enters me. I miss the electric kinetic and the pushme-pullyu of fucking, the slow velvet build of orgasm, the pink charivari climax and the swift sledding back to reality. I even miss feeling bored, lying there, counting, and wondering how much longer I can suffer this interminable fornication.
I miss the sex. I miss the tongues and the lips and the spit of it. Lately, kissing scenes in movies and on TV make my neck hairs rise with desire. I never really understood the big of filmic kissing. I would stand aside in Asperger wonder with ticka-ticka-ticka analytic thought. I could comprehend the narrative point, and I could fathom the aesthetics of the visual—the two faces silhouetted like a Grecian frieze—but my loins missed the visceral point. The kiss was still a kiss, but it left me cold.
No longer. These days, what with my frozen state of affairs, the merest whiff of chemistry gives me the slow roll and the quick flick of desire. Post-Hays code, of course, even a desperate girl has some standards.
I miss the tiny bird beating heart of my clit made molten. I miss the springy steel-in-satin feel of a tumescent cock. I miss the suck and the squelch and the slurp and, hell, I even miss the queef of it. I miss showing off. I miss taking it down. I miss the ancient, atavistic rhythm of my hips, and I miss the shadow look of intensity on a man’s face as he comes close to. I miss the spicy scent of taint. I miss the mushroomy bloom of fucking as it billows from pillows, and I miss the shiver of heat two bodies in coitus throw like rays off the sun or devils from August tarmac.
I miss it. I miss it all, the good, the ecstatic and the ugly. For perspective, let me lay some digits upon you; I believe I had sex about twelve times in 2010, maybe six or eight times in 2009, and yet fewer in 2008—thus I’ve gotten to the point where I even miss bad sex. After a while, even frozen pizza begins to look good to a starving man.
I really want a love, and not just a lover, and that’s the real cause for the severe sere of my sexlife. Not even the lack of writing, not even the need to cast about after difficult, petulant muses, muses whose subject matter feels like marbles in my mouth—or worse yet, vanilla pudding—is quite enough to make me put my feet over my head for men for whom I’m not head over heels. I’m not saying that I’ll never part my dimpled knees for anything less than the next great amour; I’m just saying that I’m feeling picky.
Picky. Self-protective. Tomayto. Tomahto. I’m a little tired of having my heart broken so casually, and that is, for me, a side effect of casual sex. Not always, but often enough. A lifetime on my back and on my knees, and I finally realize that what I want is love. Really good sex can look a lot like love if you squint your eyes hard enough across the pillows. I’m a bit weary from a lifetime of wearing my need-hungry goggles to see bedfellows as something more meaningful. If I took a hard look at all but four of the men in my life, I’d see they were all bits of fluff and fun, and while those four men are men of substance, they were incontrovertibly the wrong man for me.
Which is all to say what I said earlier. It’s tough being a writer of sex who is not having sex. I look forward to going to Europe, to living as an expat, to fumbling my way through an unfamiliar tongue and an unfamiliar land and an unfamiliar people. “Gnomo” is Italian for “gnome.” Vorrei mangiare qualcosa, ma non adesso, più tardi.
Whatever. I’ll be there and maybe the words will come. Maybe I’ll meet a new muse and I’ll feel those stories flow free and fast and clear and bright. Maybe I’ll meet a love, a lover. Maybe I’ll love. Maybe I’ll make it. Maybe I’ll fuck and find melting. But maybe I’ll be happy enough if I write.
Without words, I am nothing. Even with, I am not much bigger.