fubuki
sex
sex.
Pistons and anemones and giggling and frustration and epileptic frenzy and The Vacuum. It is plain that the female unit and the male unit are, while functionally complimentary, stylistically at odds. They have different RPMs and different metabolisms. Boys grow up programmed that sex is about jack hammers and stud horses, James Bond, coitus as imperator in triumph.
I wont feign to understand the deeper currents of feminine sexuality, but its clear to me that it operates in a realm of textures and emotion, glide and leverage, a voluptuous blooming.
On the levels of forms, sexuality is a country dog mounting a windowsill cat. But not always...
We all have a gentle fantasy of lovemaking as a spockish melding of spirits. Theoretically it might just happen, but in a world of flat tires, overdue bills, and workplace deadlines lovemaking is more a sharing of pleasure, of relief, of a delicious distraction. There is little enough time for a real daily spirituality, let alone a blinding spiritual sexuality.
Next time you are at a theme park or a bowling alley or a DMV, look around. Notice all the different species of people. Everyone one of them has a history, a hope, a couple of real mind-blowing secrets, a bank account, a paralyzing fear, a place where they sleep, frustrations, and a sexuality. They have all French kissed. They have all learned how to drive. They have all crawled into the dark corner, pulled a baby nipple over a bottle of booze, and whimpered themselves into the null and the void. They all have...just like you.
This isn’t about some Orwellian cultural homogeneity. This is about human beings. We aren’t Ford's black cars. We are more like a library of books, shelves and shelves and shelves of stories. The difference is that some are poorly written, some have simpering plots, some are technical manuals, some are trashy romances - and some, a few really, are actually great literature.
sex
sex.
Pistons and anemones and giggling and frustration and epileptic frenzy and The Vacuum. It is plain that the female unit and the male unit are, while functionally complimentary, stylistically at odds. They have different RPMs and different metabolisms. Boys grow up programmed that sex is about jack hammers and stud horses, James Bond, coitus as imperator in triumph.
I wont feign to understand the deeper currents of feminine sexuality, but its clear to me that it operates in a realm of textures and emotion, glide and leverage, a voluptuous blooming.
On the levels of forms, sexuality is a country dog mounting a windowsill cat. But not always...
We all have a gentle fantasy of lovemaking as a spockish melding of spirits. Theoretically it might just happen, but in a world of flat tires, overdue bills, and workplace deadlines lovemaking is more a sharing of pleasure, of relief, of a delicious distraction. There is little enough time for a real daily spirituality, let alone a blinding spiritual sexuality.
Next time you are at a theme park or a bowling alley or a DMV, look around. Notice all the different species of people. Everyone one of them has a history, a hope, a couple of real mind-blowing secrets, a bank account, a paralyzing fear, a place where they sleep, frustrations, and a sexuality. They have all French kissed. They have all learned how to drive. They have all crawled into the dark corner, pulled a baby nipple over a bottle of booze, and whimpered themselves into the null and the void. They all have...just like you.
This isn’t about some Orwellian cultural homogeneity. This is about human beings. We aren’t Ford's black cars. We are more like a library of books, shelves and shelves and shelves of stories. The difference is that some are poorly written, some have simpering plots, some are technical manuals, some are trashy romances - and some, a few really, are actually great literature.