antithesis of love

So the sex is easy. We have established this.

But all the other stuff. There is all that other stuff. The harm of brushing past someone casually. The chafe of one life against the next. The lack of fit and the insecurities that breed in the crawl space.

The sex is a joy. The eye in the storm. A place to catch our breath.

I should avoid the other kinds of contacts, the conversations that tug at the truth and spill it like guts into the stinking light of day. The friendships that inevitably go bad. The little intimacies that are more about them than us. the interactions that serve only to underline my difference and my freakishness.

But oh how easy is the sex, and how nice and how like the wrapping of a present before it has been disturbed and the disappointment of the gift has been unveiled.

And when you say nothing it is because you have nothing good to say. And when you say something nice it can not be taken at face value. And when you seem to understand it is a misunderstanding. And when I see a mirror in the crowd I am blinded by it.

So give me sex. Easy sex with heads and arms and legs lopped off, just genitals copulating as in porn or photographs by Joel-Peter Witkin. Just give me the honesty of this and take the rest of it away. Take all of the people away. Take me away and leave this. The sex. The easy joy of sex.