Ha. You totally expected sex to be part of this blog. Something hot. Why do we want sexy stuff? Why is sex better than death or food or birth or boogers or farts or curtains? Why, when sex appears in the title of my blog entry, is the readership double that of its other content?
Don't feel bad. I like reading sex stuff too. I get all warm and wet and blushy when I write it. So why do we keep it private? Is its subsurface status part of what fuels our excitement?
Come over to my apartment. Let's drink some good wine, allow a creamy cheese to open on a patient plate. Let's discuss the nuances of sexual deviance.
Only we won't use words. We'll mime the whole thing. If we do speak, it will be through puppets. They are great translators. That way we can say or do exactly what we want, marionetting our secret fantasies, disguising desires as the wants of outside characters. Our hands can make love through the striped cotton of unpaired socks. Jim Henson X.
Or we could build any number of fantasies. You, me, a sheepskin rug, rose petals, light champagne, candles, finger paints, chocolate, super mario brothers 3, coconut oil, cinnamon, bon bouche, water balloons, Howl's Moving Castle, my bicycle, a walking stick, leather boots, popcorn, a velvet corset, clothespins, the hot shower... my list of turn-ons continues.
If I said the blog that follows will be a vivid description of the act itself, would you get excited? Curious? Would you feel embarrassed or guilty?
There is nothing to feel bad about. I love your attraction to sex - doing it, reading it, thinking it, allowing it to be weird and spirited and simple. Within this stretchy, immediate medium, we can do it with our minds.
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