Sex is not fun.
Sex is for a moment.
We do it over and over again to cause some consistency; whether with one or multiple partners.
But it is a repetition.
It is a moment that sometimes means very little, so one thinks. But it doesn't.
There can be many lies in sex. I suppose that's normal.
But this is why I find sex so boring.
Many find it is an achievement, developmentally and I suppose as the end of a chase, a pursuit, too.
But I don't want a life of sex. I want to have it. It is fun. It does feel good. But a life of sex, and only sex. No. A death. A dull, boring death. Silence is only broken by the moans of pleasure, by a bed or a car rocking back and forth to "the motion of the ocean". It can make us blush, the thought of it, perhaps the words being spoken or written, but truly, this high is not what a life is sustained by. Meant to be sustained by. It is a spark, as I said, a moment that maybe we try to prolong through its repetitions. Over and over, thrust in and out, again and again. And when we ourselves can't do it, and with another, we often turn to watching others do it for us, instead of us; they have met, they are in the right conditions of which we find ourselves for the moment, outside of. Thus, the convenience of the exhibitionist to the hungry voyeur. But that kind of pleasure alone isn't enough for me. The silence it returns one to can be an unfruitful silence, a fatal silence, a dull and lonely silence, a barren silence, a suffering silence, a constipated silence, a silence that really needs to talk, that's holding one's breath, no exhale, no inhale, that has something in it alive and bursting and frustrated and desperate to be felt and heard, but suffocated. It is not an empty silence because you have been emptied, to your relief. Not a silence that is also an achievement. Hold me, listen to me, let me know you, know me, open up, hear me, share with me. Let's open up and let ourselves be benevolently difficult for each other. Let's try to hear one another. Let's love. But even more, and somewhat disappointingly and somewhat gracefully and rightfully, who we love, the person we "choose", isn't a choice. We don't pick them. We either love them or don't. And honestly, I have tried to love many in action, but in my heart, where it really counts for me, where it feeds me, where it is deeply personal and intimate, not just global and common, there are very few that I have ever (with my unconscious) loved. And so, I am alone. And I speak with those I'm not alone with until they have to go to bed or need to go back to work. Another repetition born of the desire for it to last forever. Till I'm sick of it, of you, of me, of us, of this. And my aloneness becomes a respite.
