Apr. 9th, 2017

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Dreamed I was in love with this short, dark, brilliant, beetle-browed man. We had lots and lots of inventive sex.

I went to visit him at his apartment and was shocked to find out that he lived in the most expensive apartment building in all of New York City. When you looked out over the building’s courtyard, you saw that the windows were decorated with bas reliefs of huge statues that looked rather like the Ramses rock reliefs at Abu Simbel.


I’ve been dreaming some really graphic sex scenes over the past few weeks. I suspect that’s because I’m writing so much from the point of view of a character who’s effectively (1) in her early 20s when sex and yearning/burning/churning play such a huge role in one’s life. That sense of utter oblivion. That sense of being the temple prostitute, abandoning yourself at night on the shores of an ink-dark sea, waiting for a stranger to transform you.

I haven’t felt that for decades.

That feeling doesn’t have much to do with sex and orgasms, which TMI and the prohibitive doctrine of oversharing disincline me to write about here, but yeah, I’m a-o-kay on that front. In case you worry.

But this is sex beyond the mechanics.

I felt the tiniest twinge of it with the Soldier two years ago.

And, of course, B was the person I felt it with most intensely.

Thing is, once you feel that, it makes ordinary sex – Rotate Point A precisely four and a half times. Firmly gripping Protrusion A with your right hand, apply tongue to fluted edge – incredibly boring, more an act of hygiene like brushing your teeth or eating adequate amounts of fiber.

(1) I say “effectively” because the character could be hundreds of years old for all the reader knows. She’s frozen in time.


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