Andrei Codrescu
All my relations are platonic. They get that way right after sex. Platonism was invented, I'm sure, in that state known as post coitum anima triste or, in American, after shtooping the soul sags. In that state of soul-sag the infinite sadness of one's animal limitations make for a dream state out of which Plato is born, every time. Plato, if you recall, thought that we human critters are only shadows, pale imitations of an ideal that is eternal and unachievable and that probably happened a long time ago, in the past, long before we assumed the mortal coils. People of the Platonic persuasion do not put much stock in our actions here in this vale of flesh tears. Consequently, some of them do not even bother with the flesh. They prefer to dwell the realms of fleeting thought and obscure meta-intuitive sorrow. They can't wait to get out of their bodies.
Sigh. It's happened. But here is the thing: physical intimacy or possible intimacy is only a device for opening the floodgates to what really matters: Words. what I want from my friends, male or female, are words. Great torrents of conversation, ramblings, monologues, infinite confidences, stories, anecdotes, confessions. I know that there are silent friendships out there just like there are platonic ones. I don't hold to those. I like my friendships warm, fleshy, verbal, sensual, sensorial and adventurous. Plato was a crank, and he hated women.