I will be talking about sex. There will be an audience. What is said in the privacy of my own Moleskine notebook will become something that is said and cannot be retracted. My mouth has a habit of opening and remaining so, an open flu and all the creaking and echoes of my life all there to hear if you listen closely. So there must be rules.
Do not talk about the husband. This is the first rule, although this is a rule that I will have trouble keeping. Statuesque, becoming more rich and gorgeous with every passing day. I sometimes drag myself out of bed so that I can be there to watch him step into the shower. Unclothed, he is something to be savoured. Still, the sex is a no go zone and he is off limits to me.
My crushes. I can speak of my crushes but in the scheme of things they will swell to disproportionate sizes without the boundaries of my husband to contain them. I could speak of fantasy, unnamed bodies that I rub myself against to gain the greatest pleasure. But these are real people. People can be bruised. I must not be rough with real people. Perhaps I should not speak about my crushes.
Pornography? Certainly I can speak about pornography, but what was once rich and bloodfilled has no shrunk down to nothing but dust. I pick at the crumbs of pornography these days, but the orgasms that accompany them are dry and blow away at the slightest disturbance of the air.
Still I will need to talk about sex. I pencil the dates into my diary and it is a conundrum. What to say? What to say?
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