writing sex

She asked me if I minded that everyone just saw me as a sex writer. I shrugged. It is impossible to control how others see me. I write other things, not just sex but sex is at the heart of every interaction and it is the glue that binds us as people.

I have been struggling with the big questions, the meaning of life, the pointlessness of existence. Pointless questions really because the answers are so obvious. There is no meaning of life. Things just are and we happen to exist along with the rest of it. I am beset by the same worries that the philosophers have grappled with since words could be scribbled on stone. Surely by now we would have learned that there is no point to the endless questioning and yet we humans can't seem to stop feeling like there should be something more.

Sex is the reason we commune. It is all back to procreation I suppose but now in a new time, we practice sex as a ritual. Sex as a means of communication. Sex to prove to us that we are loved. There is sex in my work and certainly Triptych was written as a pure exploration of sexual boundaries, but I will always be looking for more than just the surface of us as sexual beings.

My family have removed themselves from a position where they need to commune with others. They have created a sexless existence, a pond of existence so isolated that there will never be a single ripple in the surface of their lives. From this position they wind down, unchallenged.

So I suppose it is fine that everyone sees me as a sex writer. At least I am making ripples if not waves. The water is constantly churned. Within this turbulence I can still seek to find something beautiful to capture and bring to the world.

There have been stories I have written that are not really about sex. There are whole books too although sex is simmering somewhere beneath the surface calm. But I suppose if people only see me as a sex writer that is okay too. At least they see me. Most days I just feel invisible after all.