My cock isn’t hard.
I’m not thinking about sex.
I’m doing things that we all do, that bring us all pleasure, or pain. Cooking, cleaning, playing, reading, writing. Something that’s not about sex.
Other times, sex is all I can think about, but it’s an intellectual, not a bodily, preoccupation. Every person I see I see through the lens of sex: that old woman? What was her sex life like? What is it like? That teenage boy? I wonder where he is in his trajectory. I think it about toddlers and geriatrics, men and women. Not in an intrusive, creepy way. No, more in an intellectually curious way, wondering about how the arcs of our lives intersect with the arcs of our sexuality.
And other times, still?
Sex – the sweaty, sticky, messy, rapturous connection of one person to him or herself, or to another, or to eighteen others – is where my head is. Then, children recede from my vision, as do geriatrics, and I’m left in a bountiful universe of people in, say, their 20s to their 50s, every one of whom is a potential sex partner, a partner in crime, a partner in pleasure.
But right now?
I just have a little work I need to do.