. . .These days I don’t have a lot of interest in writing about sex at all. Part of my erotica apathy stems from the sense that I’ve written a lot about sex. I’ve described it. I’ve intellectualized it. I’ve made it funny. I’ve made it emo. I’ve done it in a train. I’ve done it with some pain. I’ve done it with a frown. I’ve done it with a clown. And I don’t know how much more I have to say about the sex. I am proud of my sex-writing. It’s damn good and it taught me a lot. It also has helped other people, or so all the emails I have received specifically about my deep-throating posts have led me to believe.
So there’s the feeling that I’ve done it to death. But there’s also the inescapable fact that I’m not fucking anyone right now, and while it would be nice to do so in the future, I’d like to fuck that person without the intellectual specter hanging over my bed and narrating what I’m doing and feeling. No one needs to imagine an apparitional Howard Cosell providing color commentary whilst one is going at it like rabid mongooses, not unless that fantasy would enhance one’s experience, in which case have at it. Plus there’s the fact that most humans don’t want their sexual experiences put into artful narratives and posted where the virtual world can see it. Sex with a human would be nice. Some day.
Gallery Carre
