coming to the central question

The central question was not as difficult as one might think. I struggled with the idea of of my unabashed carnality - a term that I have stumbled upon and quite like. I have turned the compost of my sexual adventures until all the colour and shape has mulched down and run together and there is nothing left but the bland monochrome of sex and more sex. Perhaps you have yawned at the endless parade of cock, cunt, pubic hair, orgasm, vibrator, animal, vegetable, mineral and blah blah blah ad infinitum.

It's all about sex, I tell them. It is all about fucking. But of course it has never been about fucking. I sit in the bland room with the woman who is helping me to sift through my errant thoughts and I know that it is not about sex. Sex has never been particularly difficult. There is no conflict there. My fucking has been easy and indiscriminate and since monogamy set in there has been little to write home about.

So at the heart of it is the idea of home, the leaving of it, and the coming back.

Even this seems too much to reveal in such a public forum. More exposing than the endless chatter about masturbation and penetration. The clean and easy disrobing that I have become used to, and comfortable with.

I had a dream once and it stuck with me. I was crawling upstream along a river with barely enough water in it to drown a child. Still the trip was arduous. I dragged my body through a trickle of ice and at the end of it there was an orange glow. A telephone booth. I would reach it eventually, but first there was the slithering upstream on my belly, my frozen elbows cut and bleeding from the rocky river bed.

I knew that when I reached the telephone booth I would call home. I wondered if I had enough change for the call. I couldn't stop to check or I would loose ground, I just continued to creep upstream, one exhausting heave after another when perhaps I could have stood and taken the few steps across the riverbank without much trouble at all.