Head and groin

Let me now make love with my head. It is difficult. In the discussion of sex all of the blood seems to rush to my groin. What begins as a conversation ends with a bodily hunger that consumes all semblance of ordinary human interaction. I stop listening. I am overtaken instead by stray scents, a touch, the viscosity of bodily fluids. People are reduced to a touch. The sense of their words is muted as that other channel, the frequency of sex, is turned up to a deafening level.

I must read sex and understand it. This is where my study has led me, towards French Theorists who are ironically impenetrable, towards Sontag who is glorious until her discussion of Sade causes the blood to rush to my vagina and I find myself wondering how it would be to feel her lips on me, discussing sexuality without words, her luscious thick hair water-falling around my hips. My study of sexuality is a strange unbalanced interplay between head and groin. I have set out to become a thinker of sex and yet, every time I think of it I am drawn back into the voracious appetite of my body.

And so I read the theory of it all, the mechanations of the act of writing about sex removed from the bodily participation in the act, and yet the sludge of my desire sullies the pristine pages of Foucault.

Very large woman on the bus

She has spent time on her hair although despite this there is a light snow of dandruff on her flimsy shirt. Immaculate makeup, not heavy, just enough to emphasize the doll-like fullness of her lips, her dark intelligent eyes, the roundness of her face which is reminiscent of a fruit at the very moment of ripeness. She has a clear sense of style, confident and without any need to overindulge in the distractions of lace or detail of cloth.

She is breathtaking, and as she stands, everyone watches her, but I know they are wondering how she got to be so big. I am wondering about the powdery smell of her massive thighs, and if all the world shudders when she comes.

the race

She worries that they are too alike.

"We could never be together because of the similarities" and as soon as she has said it she knows that it was a mistake.

This is the difference between them. She sees their love of Art and literature, he notices her anxiousness and vaguely contained fury. To her they are too close. To him they are too far apart.

She sees a film at the cinema and knows that he would like it too. She recommend it. He downloads it and shrugs telling her that it is okay.

They make love and she is struck by her inability to feel intimate, even when she is completely naked before him. He tells her that this time was the best ever.

They have strayed past the end of the thing. Somewhere, without a finishing line to snap with her out-pressed chest they have run the course to its completion. No one to pat them on the back or bring them post race refreshments and so together they keep running, stopping now and then to look back at the ever-lengthening distance behind them, wondering if it is up to them to shake hands and, exhausted, walk off the track.

Damp-eyed she hugs him goodbye knowing that it is for the last time. Cheerily he kisses her on the cheek and tells her that he'll see her next week. When he is gone she stands on the track and bends at the waist and breathes till the pain lessens. She could just walk away. Should. Will.

She spends a day in mourning, crying for a thing that is now lost.

He calls. He sets a time and a place and at some point in the conversation he makes her laugh. She picks herself up off the grass and performs a few half-hearted stretches. Slowly at first, but with increasing vigor, she begins to run again.