I am SO sick of sex
OK, “sick of” may not be the correct phraseology.
Bored with, perhaps, although the situations and the partners involved have been far from boring. I’ve experienced things … well. I’ll leave that to your imagination. For now, anyway.
Disappointed?
BINGO!
I want more. After an extended period of near celibacy (resulting from the meningitis and hep and all that happy horseshit) I’ve put myself ‘back on the market’ so to speak. No, I’m not selling my bod, though I’ve recently had an offer to do just that, and for quite a hefty sum. Maybe I’ll write about it later, if you ask me nicely.
I’ve recently reconnected with some past friends and met a slew of new. And everyone wants to fuck. No complaints from me, originally, for the first month or so. It’d been a while; I needed a good romp. But …
All anyone wants of me is to rip my clothes off and have (admittedly wonderfully raunchy) sex. Conversation is shallow and minimal, at best, and, besides the moans of pleasure/pain, I’m not sure anyone hears a word I have to say. Does any one of them know/care that I’ve traveled the world? That I have a modicum of intelligence and a smattering or wit and can occasionally hold a fairly coherent conversation? Does any one of them care that I’m working as a gardener/landscaper? That I aspire to be a writer?
Issues are resurfacing. Issues I thought I’d dealt with long ago. Issues I need to write about. Sex and HIV and the shit that is inevitably inclusive. This, however, is not the forum in which such information should be shared. Thinking I should, maybe, start updating the old Diaryland site temporarily, just to vent, cry, bitch, whatever. Should I decide to do so, it will be password protected. I’ll let you know if and when, and, if you care, will let you see my privates.
After all, my privates seem to be all anyone cares about these days anyway.
Now, though, I’m uncorking my 3rd bottle of Shiraz this evening, just in an attempt to …