Tonight I spent a little bit of time, after admiring the porn on a free website (this a detour from reading through "articles" on Gawker and that a detour from revising my writing sample), looking through their sex blogs. Supposedly my kin. But I'd been wondering if there were others where I might find some kind of ... reflection? community? inspiration?
Yet most of these blogs are aimed specifically towards erotica, I suppose you would call it. And this doesn't quite suit my purpose. Or at least, the purpose I can admit to myself. I could tell you about sleeping with L_____ a few months ago. But somehow that description is so artless and without meaning. A description of bodies and their interactions. That is not precisely what I want. For me there is something wonderful about sex which should not be rendered into discourse (yes, teaching Foucault as of late, leider). And the things which turn me on are ideas, frequently. Or at least, I don't want to write if that writing has only the purpose of detailing exploits. There has to be some reflection.
But so I have simply admitted to myself that I will have to spend some time before I am worthy of an audience. And maybe I'll start commenting here and there so as to develop one.
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My ego congratulates itself for fidelity. This past weekend my girlfriend was here and so we spent time together and it was lovely, as it always is. But totally without sex. None whatsoever. And I hadn't seen her for at least two weeks. I think. And in between visits my friend S____, who is the ex-girlfriend and ex-fiancée of my closest friend K______, came into town. The last time I saw her was November 2005, when I traveled to southern California to see her and several other friends on the West Coast. At it happened, we ended up spending a delightful night in a tent together. Planning the camping trip that was sexless until we got into that tent ... and then it happened. Not that we slept together. All but, so to speak.
So last weekend, when S was here, I fell into old habits. We started making out in a bar. A mutual friend of ours tagged along, and so we tried to keep it somewhat subtly hidden from her, as my fingers crossed up her legs underneath the table, and her hand moved into my crotch. But the mutual friend was by no means fooled, although she mentioned nothing until the next day.
But so here, with only a week passed, my natural tendency for repression pontificates on the beginning of a new era in which the transgressive spirit has been quenched. Extinguished. And yet, I realize, perhaps things are not so ... rosy.
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