My closest confidants know I’ve been working away on a novel for the last while. Something I’ve been struggling with as I face all the challenges that seem to be common place to those chasing similar endeavors. Creative indecision, insecurities, doubt, and my own issues with letting things just be good enough have been holding me back from really laying into the work that has been sitting in my head for a few years. But it hasn’t been a complete standstill. I’d actually finished a draft and passed it onto a literary agent who, after reviewing it, suggested another draft but with some added intrigue in the form of “more interesting romantic situations.” I know what that means. It doesn’t mean more interesting dialogue, it means more sex. Fucking. The grand omnipotent motivator for we feeble human, holding our cocks out & cunts open for the connection that might deliver us to God, if even for only a few moments during intense sex. What better sense of validation than being sought out to serve the most transcendent human experience (arguably)?
I’ve taken to the feedback and began running my fingers through the lines of the female secondary characters, who I’ve honestly already considered having sexual interaction, in addition to the romantic undertones, with the main character, but now am retro-fitting into something that I had consciously avoided. It’s more than just blocking in some fucking and off to the printers… I didn’t want it to be just be that, so I’ve started adding and removing scenarios to fit this new, modified story that I’m telling. Quite frankly, I’m more excited for what it’s turning out to be than my original concept, which admittedly lacked a depth of intimacy.
The entire process has led me into a deep meditative contemplation on what it is to fuck, and perhaps I’ve even become far too liberal with my willingness to pull innocents into the closet with me, and engage in conversations often deemed too personal to even birth to spoken words. It has completely driven my interest into the divinity of sex, and how it’s social function is sometimes a one sided conversation, or what we learn from each other – how we fuck, for what we lust, and what shapes of the people that drive us absolutely mad with impulsive need. We all cum a little differently. It’s a unique language of our soul screaming for reciprocity for the unending suffering of daily life, and it knows, and we know it knows, that it wants to feel the pain of another soul; Sharing all the experience and memories, of all that we’ve ever known and lived, in a dance of breathtaking complexity.
But I fear that I may ventured too far into the curiosities of the human condition. I’m caught with eyes, now, that wonder too often how the suffering of daily life, good or bad, has tempered the fragile soul of a beautiful woman (any)… And how long I linger with curiosity on who she is, or rather who she becomes when she’s undone in throws of lust, the shape of her lips bent by the euphoric agony of a pending release, the taste of her pussy before and during, the arch of her back, and shadows cast by breasts over outlines of ribs, the patterns of breaths and moans, perhaps most importantly, the humanity in her eyes. Does the act bring about fear? Liberation? Or maybe it’s function, the act of sex is therapeutic… Or maybe it’s an addiction… Or maybe it’s completely obligatory, uncomfortable, and altogether unwanted. They’re all of equal importance, and my mind cannot help but consider all things, all the time.
I’m plagued with this, now. I’m completely infatuated by the real. By the real I mean: what is. But sometimes I fantasize about what might be – because there’s no way for me to truly know. Is that what this is all about? Just the mystery of it all? Who are we? And when I can’t help but wonder what it might feel like to have her lips wrapped around me in ways I’ll reserve for the imagination, is that intrinsic curiosity a pursuit of a deeper understanding? Or am I wrong in all of it, and is it simply, purely nothing more than a biological result of our need to reproduce?
Look at me… Losing myself in an endless cycle of redundancy.
Burdened with a mind so filthy, I’ll just have to carry it with me for the foreseeable future… And maybe there’s nothing left for me to do with it but just finish my goddamn book.