He doesn't talk about sex. He talks about everything that isn't sex and all the time it is there at the centre of things, sex like a beating heart and him reaching out but never tearing it from the flesh of his polite writing.
I talk about sex. I reach in, blood up to my elbows, all the messy secretions of the act a stain on my reputation. I feel about in the dark body of my life and I find nothing. No beating heart, no heart at all. I emerge from my sexual scramblings and I am holding nothing but loneliness.
This is the difference between the two of us. We talk at cross purposes, but still, we talk, which makes me less lonely and him a small step closer to sex.
3 comments:
Cake is still better.
or perhaps a combination of the two?
Just so long as it is not chocolate cake. I don't get the chocalate - sex thing. Maybe something with syrup like an orange and almond cake - moist, sweet and full of nuts.
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