(no subject)
Killian came over after dinner to do some ironing (Hestia has blessed our hearth with an iron, while Killian must suffer the wrath that only an unironed shirt can wreak upon an otherwise presentable culinary assistant) and somehow we got onto the topic of sex. I believe that we were in fact discussing my preferences in men, and I, of course, pointed to Luc as the epitome of masculinity. Killian, practical Irish soul that he is, countered with alacrity that such a relationship could never bear fruit.
I took it metaphorically, understanding it to mean that short Asian girls such as Jade Lin will never manage more than friendship with Dutch gods like Luc Westerveldt - sure, why not, Killian only stated my own musings anyway. Luc is smart, but no intellectual, while I dredge the depths of philosophy too much for my own good (much more than this journal would suggest, in fact). Our Irishman, however, meant his comment literally. He pointed out that I barely eclipse 156 cm, while Luc towers above me at about 180, if not more, and “How, Jade, will you manage It?”
We launched into a discussion that might make you raise your eyebrows, dear reader, so I give you fair warning. He argued that a spontaneous act of love involving a certain Dutchman and me would prove impossible given the height differences; it would, rather, take planning. Then he accused me of looking at the matter with too clinical an eye when I brought up the possibility of what I euphemised as “props” - nothing drastic, but it culminated in an analysis of desks, bookshelves, armchairs, desk chairs, and bench press boards.
So I wondered aloud what would be worse: desks and cushions and contortionist tricks in the bedroom or the library scenario, where busts of Horace, Plato and Caesar look down at us from their lofty heights as we go at it like rabbits. I can’t envision Luc in a library, much less one with a fireplace, candlelight, and leather-bound books stacked to the ceiling; can’t imagine him impassioned in such a place, or what it would take to rouse his blood beneath the marble gazes of the ancients.
Does it matter? These are but dreams. I told Killian about the sanctity of sex and my conviction that the act can illuminate the sacred and mystic. He replied that I should have lived in the Twenties, when D.H. Lawrence and Anais Nin wrote works of erotic magnificence imbued with those same beliefs.
Then out of the blue I remembered this quotation:
"By communing with a woman, man could achieve a climactic instant when his mind went totally blank and he could see God... The male climax was accompanied by a split second entirely devoid of thought... A moment of clarity in which God could be glimpsed" (Dan Brown, The Da Vinci Code, p. 335).
I believe it. I really do. (And I wonder what’s in it for women - can we, too, glimpse God? Or are we, descendants of Eve, forever banned from that glory?) But tonight I was in a funny mood, and so what came out of my mouth was, “Um…so the moment of Luc’s ejaculation will also prove to be his moment of conversion to Catholicism?”
I took it metaphorically, understanding it to mean that short Asian girls such as Jade Lin will never manage more than friendship with Dutch gods like Luc Westerveldt - sure, why not, Killian only stated my own musings anyway. Luc is smart, but no intellectual, while I dredge the depths of philosophy too much for my own good (much more than this journal would suggest, in fact). Our Irishman, however, meant his comment literally. He pointed out that I barely eclipse 156 cm, while Luc towers above me at about 180, if not more, and “How, Jade, will you manage It?”
We launched into a discussion that might make you raise your eyebrows, dear reader, so I give you fair warning. He argued that a spontaneous act of love involving a certain Dutchman and me would prove impossible given the height differences; it would, rather, take planning. Then he accused me of looking at the matter with too clinical an eye when I brought up the possibility of what I euphemised as “props” - nothing drastic, but it culminated in an analysis of desks, bookshelves, armchairs, desk chairs, and bench press boards.
So I wondered aloud what would be worse: desks and cushions and contortionist tricks in the bedroom or the library scenario, where busts of Horace, Plato and Caesar look down at us from their lofty heights as we go at it like rabbits. I can’t envision Luc in a library, much less one with a fireplace, candlelight, and leather-bound books stacked to the ceiling; can’t imagine him impassioned in such a place, or what it would take to rouse his blood beneath the marble gazes of the ancients.
Does it matter? These are but dreams. I told Killian about the sanctity of sex and my conviction that the act can illuminate the sacred and mystic. He replied that I should have lived in the Twenties, when D.H. Lawrence and Anais Nin wrote works of erotic magnificence imbued with those same beliefs.
Then out of the blue I remembered this quotation:
"By communing with a woman, man could achieve a climactic instant when his mind went totally blank and he could see God... The male climax was accompanied by a split second entirely devoid of thought... A moment of clarity in which God could be glimpsed" (Dan Brown, The Da Vinci Code, p. 335).
I believe it. I really do. (And I wonder what’s in it for women - can we, too, glimpse God? Or are we, descendants of Eve, forever banned from that glory?) But tonight I was in a funny mood, and so what came out of my mouth was, “Um…so the moment of Luc’s ejaculation will also prove to be his moment of conversion to Catholicism?”