Policy: Don’t travel to fuck someone you haven’t met.
Yesterday, as T was reading over the e-mails and chats I’ve been exchanging with the woman I’ll call “P,” T shook her head admiringly and said, “I think you should go see her.”
in response to which, I articulated the policy above. This is a woman whose face I haven’t even seen, whose voice I’ve heard but once, whom I truly don’t know. I mean – I do know her. We’ve exchanged all sorts of intimate details of our lives, some sexual, some not. I know a bit about her travails and woes, and joys and pleasures. She knows some things about me that even the most diligent reader of this blog wouldn’t know.
But hell: I’m not spending real money, real time, getting on a big plane and taking a long flight to fuck her.
The brain/cock connection is so funny. Rationally, consciously, I know that’s right, not just prescriptively, but predictively. (And for the record, I won’t get on a plane just to fuck her.) But…
I can think of all sorts of reasons why I might need to find myself in the town in which she lives, all sorts of excuses to travel there.
T says to me, “What proportion of flights do you believe people take primarily for sex?”
“Oh,” I say. “Obviously, much more than half. I’d say, 73%.”
T nods, sagely.