I hid my surprise. The social contract around sharing illicit knowledge was only just being written for us, or rather, there was a whole new level of illicit stuff that we hadn’t known we should know more about. Sure, we knew about the baseball thing — sex education in Georgia was Little League inspired. I could not picture the point of 3rd base, nor, really, of a home run, other than to understand that it was something I was supposed to want.

Information came to me slowly. Why did that guy laugh when he said that that girl was like a cat in heat? Some girl offered a guy a grape and he thought she was offering him a rape. Even when I looked it up later, it made no sense, and clearly he didn’t understand the word either. Elizabeth so-and-so turned a red light on in her room, and guys drove up, came in and didn’t stay long.  A couple was heard to have gone into a broom closet, and the girl walked funny when she came out. The classic description of a blow job as what happens when a girl blows into the guy’s penis and inflates his balls. Little bits of things heard, overheard, retold, the third-hand whispers, the glimpses of things, some true and some not — I filed each away, trying to understand but unwilling to ask directly.

I forged my own understanding, clumsily. For example, my friend and I “practiced” French kissing — quite a lot, in fact — “just in case.”  Neither of us knew anything about being gay — had not even heard of that concept — which allowed us to experience things that would have been unthinkable given the prevailing attitudes of that time. It was a quiet negotiation of sexual truth, a first-hand exploration between two friends who were equally clueless, equally curious. There was no authority to say what it was and what it wasn’t. We didn’t talk about it much, but we had an understanding.

I found what I needed, either first hand or from the information pool available through my social channels. It did not come from culture, and the Internet was just a gleam in little Al Gore’s eye. I learned on a “need to know” basis, coming of age slowly, even gently. Sex shops, red light districts, peep shows, behind-the-counter porn — I didn’t need any of that because being sexual with a girl, in any way, was enough. More than enough. I could not have processed all the myriad flavors of ways to be sexual.  It would have seemed unhelpful, circus-like, distracting, confusing — but most important, it would have been alien to me. Alien, because completely outside my social context — a big world of scary hairy things with no friendly guidance. Pretty much like the Internet is today.

What is too much sexual information? I guess it depends on how it’s delivered. Anyone can now look up “Ben Wa balls” on the Internet and find out what they are, in great detail. You don’t have to depend on your social circle, don’t have to manage the delicate negotiation of illicit knowledge with a friend, where you want to know but you also want to seem to already know.  Is that a loss? Or a relief? It depends on why you need to know. If I happen to think, oh, wouldn’t it be fun to have something vibrating inside my ass all day (or vagina if I’m a woman), I’m going to find out about Ben Wa balls in a sort of natural progression. I might even have a friend who knows. If not — why know about them?

One can certainly make the argument that more information about sex is better than less. After all, when in 11th grade I found myself sliding my hand into my girlfriend’s pants, I didn’t know what I would do when I got there. I suppose no one does. As it turned out, I never got there — I took a wrong turn down her thigh (I was drunk), and then somebody interrupted us to say that our house was on fire — oh, but I digress.

Had I already watched porn videos showing close-ups of vaginas and the mysterious exact location of the clitoris and what to do about it, what then? Would I have felt like a failed lover, fallen short of some expectation coming from outside that actual relationship? Or, maybe worse, had I performed, would that moment have lost its stupid innocence? As it was, I was happy to have even touched her thigh, and we laughed about it, at least a little bit, before we broke up.

There’s only so long that you can go along without making a word commitment in this area. For a while you can try to use indirect references, saying, for example, you want him to put “it” in you, but you want to make sure he’s not holding something other than what you’re hoping for when you say that. And it doesn’t really work for me to call your vag “it” because it makes it seem diseased.

Grunting and pointing and using your hands in various ways will work for a while — maybe forever. But what if you’re having an online romance? That is just not going to fly on the phone, sorry. And it doesn’t translate at all on IM.

You can also go with the “personal genitals” idea. This is where you equate the person’s part with the person. For example, “I want you inside me” or “you’re so wet” or “I like it when you touch yourself.” These are normal things to say, and actually quite sweet. It’s sort of my preference, but it doesn’t always work. You find yourself getting all convoluted, trying to avoid saying the actual noun. Plus, when things get really down and dirty, or when you want to say it a little rougher, maybe, because you’re feeling like an animal, it doesn’t ring true. It’s a bit too civilized and PC.

So you eventually have to choose your word.

If you say the wrong word, it can be offensive, but it’s an awkward sort of offense. It’s not like you’ve necessarily had a dinner table discussion about the merits of “pussy” vs. “cunt,” or “dick” vs. “cock.” That happens later. I’m talking about the beginning of the relationship, particularly that part where you haven’t actually done anything yet. Or not much. Anyway, the offended party is not likely to correct you, mid-stroke, to correct your English. After all, it was heartfelt, what you said. It’s just that now, you’re calling her vagina a “cunt” and that’s not what she calls it, and so — there’s a disconnect. Something’s off.

There’s always Latin as a fallback — “oh, your vagina is so tight!” is ok if you’re in stirrups in the ob-gyn’s office, but in the bedroom it’s just off. Saying “I want your penis in my mouth” is, I suppose, safe, but it just feels medical, or like you’re not even talking about my thing. Using the Latin is about playing it safe, about not deciding, about not risking. You have to get beyond that, into dirty land.

It’s delicate, though, isn’t it?  What happens if the lusty word I want to use for vag is ”pussy” but you hate that word because your grandmother called each of her 17 cats “pussy”?  So what do you do? Well, you have to use the word you want me to use yourself, and hope that I’m paying attention. But then — what if the word you use doesn’t feel right to me? Making me put “cunt” in my mouth (aside from the obvious pleasure) might make me feel like a bad actor — here comes my line, oh! — “your — uh — cunt — oh baby — yummy, uh, your cunt is so…arggh! oh fuck, what was I going to say?” yada yada. 

Same goes for me. I don’t particularly like “dick” because I know a lot of them. For me, “dick” has perjorative undertones. But maybe that’s your favorite word! And in any case, in the moment, whatever you call it — well, I’m pretty much willing to overlook most everything to make sure my “dick” gets where I want it to be. I mean, let’s not quibble over the particulars. And yet…it leaves us with memories we want to edit, just a wee bit.

I’ve kind of settled on “cock” but that doesn’t totally fit either, no pun intended. Sounds a little too much like some purple-clad prince, strutting around and too proud to get dirty. M uses “dick” but not often enough that it bothers me. Oh wait, that didn’t come out right. Ack — never mind.

Now that I’m thinking of it, it’s really about how it’s said, rather than the word itself. That’s the real risk — saying the right word without the proper level of feeling, without that let-loose yawp erupting from your chest, from your deepest swellings of blind lust & desire. You don’t let that out and you’re hiding yourself, you’re not connecting, no matter what word you use.

An incident occurred recently in which I was quite distracted (by a meal I was thinking about, or another woman — doesn’t matter). M was very upset about most everything, as is her wont — work, kids, work, life, work work work etc. – and it was one of those situations in which I knew it was a time thing — just had to spend the time with her to allow her to unwind the whole ball of thread. So I uh-huh’ed and mmm’ed and she calmed down after a bit, but all the while I just wanted to get back to what I was doing (maybe I was writing a poem). I was very little there, in fact — not something I’m especially proud of. And then she was suddenly in the mood for physical affection and — my mind could not go there. I was still very distracted by my poem. But, because I’m such an excellent husband, I gave her what she needed, although magnanimously begged off receiving anything because I said I was anxious about work.  The rarity of that happening belies my level of distraction.

Well.

The next morning she was all cooey and about ready to pedestal me for being so good to her. Really very grateful. And in that moment I realized that she allows me to give her such little bits of myself, and she’s satisfied with that. I mean, I was barely present, and yet she didn’t notice my absence. I could have been a yes machine, a latex nodding dummy. As a philosophical question, if I can satisfy her, make her feel wanted, and heard, and valued, without actually extending myself very far — well, what is my responsibility? Did I violate some contract? Is the point to love someone silly, way beyond her wildest dreams, no matter what comes your way? Or to just do it in such a way that she feels satisfied, and full — just as much as she thinks she needs/wants? How much is too much water, how much not enough? 

And anyway — so what does this have to do with her not being enough for me? Doesn’t this sound pretty much like its opposite?

Muse-woman sez: I guess my argument against your argument would be that if it only takes this tiny portion of you to fill her up then it’s YOU who’s getting cheated, not her. Isn’t love all about being challenged & stretched? Won’t you grow stale sitting there on the counter with no one to eat all of you? Don’t you need someone who can go hog-wild & belly up, devouring you & asking for more cause doesn’t the magic happen when you must come up with more? Not someone who will drain you like a vampire, let’s be clear with our metaphors, but an adventurous eater with a hearty appetite for you.

Ah, muse-woman. There’s a reason I love ya.

This only addresses the “not enough” side of the conundrumic equation. Later I’ll look at the love part of this — stuck, struggling, on the left side. (to be continued…)

The best gifts, for me, have three qualities. They are unexpected, they are thoughtful, and they are things that I didn’t even know I wanted.

The problem I have with birthdays, holidays and other occasions is that a gift is expected — something, anything, but you can’t not give something. And it is that expectation that throws me off every time. It’s possible, of course, that not everyone has the same list of qualities for a gift. But right off the bat, if there’s an expectation, then there’s pressure to perform, to get the perfect gift.

Unfortunately, gift-giving is not a habit with me. If it were — if I was one of those people who spontaneously gave gifts — then maybe the lack of a gift on a particular important occasion could be overlooked. As the big day looms closer, I come to realize my yearlong lapse and then I am trapped — I must give, or else.

Or else — that’s the big question. Just as I have trouble empathizing with obese people because I have never struggled with food issues, I also have trouble empathizing with people’s burning desire for

The main problem with being involved with a woman for at least a year is that you will undoubtedly be called upon to give her a gift. I can be really good at gift-giving, but I can also be really, really bad.  While I never forget the birthdays of those closest to me, I have a tendency to freeze up as the Big Day approaches.

First, I suffer from Perfect Gift Syndrome — you know, the condition where I expect that when she opens my gift, she will swoon, or laugh with insane joy, melting into my arms, kissing me with gratitude.  She won’t be able to bear being separated from her Perfect Gift, which is how special it really is.

Ok, so there might be something in the universe that works like that, but the thing is, I can’t imagine what it is for myself, so how could I possibly imagine it for someone else? What kind of stupid plan is that, anyway?  I once spent an hour circling a jewelry display table at a store that was hinted at as a place where I could not go wrong. Nothing seemed right, so I picked one of the more expensive items, thinking that she could just return it if she didn’t like it.  Until that gift-giving experience, I’d never actually witnessed someone burst into tears upon opening a gift.

Second, I rebel against schedules of any kind. At every job I’ve ever had, I come in late. In school — late for class. Deadline? Let’s push that out a bit, ok? I don’t like someone telling me that I have to do something on a certain date. Some days I feel very generous, and would spontaneously give gifts if it weren’t for my other issues with gifts.  Other days, not so much.

Third, I have an almost non-existent relationship with stores and shopping.  Christmas is a revelation for me, because it’s one of the few times during the year that I actually go out into stores, and I feel like someone who has arrived here from a third-world country, or from Russia. I’m amazed at all the stuff and by around December 23rd, I’m really starting to get the “Christmas spirit,” which for me essentially means that I want to go deep in debt so I can give friends and family things that they never asked for and never knew they wanted.  

That’s part of the problem — there’s too much stuff, too many choices. Even a simple thing like choosing flowers is fraught.  Think about it — think about all of the appropriate birthday gifts you can buy in this country for, say, $100. I’m kind of sick of stuff, personally. When I think of the Perfect Gift for myself, for example, I draw a blank. There’s nothing I want that I or anyone else could buy that would get me all excited. At my age, I’ve purchased everything I wanted to purchase. I understand that the thrill won’t last. I realize that this makes me a threat to society. It’s possible that I may need to go on medication.

They say it’s the thought that counts. Turns out that execution matters.

M. reads People magazine, and freely admits it. I read it when she’s asleep, and won’t admit it to anyone. (And yeah, “reading” is overstating it). That magazine is the only reason that I have a fighting chance of at least recognizing the names of those people who are famous because they are famous, and who, it seems, fascinate others. But my memory is short. So the other day, a guy at work made a joke while IM’ing, equating something really good with somebody named, I dunno, Megan Fox. I’d never heard of her before but I soon got that she’s some latest “hot thing” to fascinate — someone with big breasts, probably, someone “sexy,” some sort of scandal-clad bad girl that men think they want to fuck, etc. etc.

My friend thought I was joking when I asked who she was.

Thing is, I’m not wired. I am not in the loop, and I don’t care about cultural icons. It’s much too much work and I can’t invest. Celebrities live and die in the cultural landscape like daylillies in summer. Or not even –

I’m sort of fascinated by how and why these things are so fascinating to others, but the idea of immersing myself in a sea of ever-changing fascinati — yes, I think I’m coining a new word here — well, it would be like driving down a beautiful country road in autumn and having Post-It notes all over the windshield, each of which contains something important I’m supposed to remember and which occasionally fly off, to be replaced by equally important notes. Or like having a Kirby vaccuum cleaner salesman on the porch with me for breakfast, talking non-stop, pressuring me to buy, buy, buy, throwing dirt clods on the floor and firing up the 2000 amp machine to clean it while I’m just focused on my coffee cup, watching the steam curl over its edge and attempting to right myself for the day. I mean, do I really have to watch Dancing With The Stars, or American Idol, or SNL, or Letterman, or [name that 'reality' show] to participate in American life? How does this connect me to others? How does this help me connect with myself?

We live and breathe distraction. And the fascinati-aware will ask — distraction from what? Will say — this is the stuff of life, and please do join us when you come out from inside your asshole, er, cave.   

You can certainly make the argument that dallying about with this stuff allows you to “connect” with people, if by connection you mean being able to gossip about people you have never met and to “get” cultural references.  Would knowing the name of that starlet have helped me connect more deeply with my co-worker? No, what it allows me to do is to confirm our mutual delusion, to quietly sink together into the gooey muck, to forget we are alive (in the delicious existential sense of the word).

My friend D. gets lots of hits on her blog (at least relative to me), and she gets those hits not just because she writes really well (she does), but because she writes about shit people care about.  Shit I’ve never heard of, at times.   She doesn’t write about stuff from the center of the illusion, from the People’d perspective — not at all!  She writes from the outposts of the cultural landscape.  Very different. I love hearing what she hears and seeing what she sees, and on many occasions windows have opened and birds flew out, or in (but she’s a trickster so you have to expect that).  But to me it’s still mostly clutter. Don’t take that the wrong way — I don’t mean it’s junk — there’s a huge difference between clutter and junk. But I mean — ok — do I really need to know what a butt plug is for?  (And no, I really don’t know – and just because it’s a Jesus butt plug does not make me more inclined to want to find out). I don’t need to know, but that’s just me — I like a clean windshield.  

What About Art?

Thing is, D. is a real writer, with serious Muse-ness, and she blogs (and tweets) for exercise, she says – so what happens for me, I find myself looking beyond what she writes on her blog — like I’m at a movie and there’s a tall guy sitting in front of me, and he’s wearing a hat. And the movie is not just a movie but it’s a thing that I want to sit with and be moved by, a thing that orients me, that fires me up even before the coffee starts. It’s the sensibility of an aware soul who can shout it out, who can wake the goddamn mummies fur real, not the made-for-tv/You Tube, cheap torn-polyester sheet ones but the honest-to-god 5000 year old walking souls, the ones who know a thing or two about the underworld. I just want to see that movie. I want to see that movie — the one that only she can make — and she’s holding out on me. She’s writing a blog about anything and everything, all of this cultural stuff, and I don’t get to see that movie.

I was thinking that she was like the shamanness in the village, but she’s inside watching tv when she should be out in the open air, sprinkling bits of bone shards and paprika and crushed birds’ nests onto peoples heads instead. I thought — D, you are watching the blinking lights on your dash, watching the people watching you, becoming engulfed in fascinati, becoming one with the search engine – and don’t you know that those lights will never stop blinking? The searches will keep on coming  – but what are people really searching for? A way back home, of course — or, at the very least, a short ride through the underworld on a hay wagon.

But maybe she’s not “just writing a blog,” as her friend S. thinks, stubbing out her cigarette in it. It occurs to me that she might just be showing parts of that movie I want to see, but from odd angles, showing little x-rays of its bones, mini-previews, raw footage. It occurs to me that she uses her blog like a mermaid must use sonar — it’s not just about the content, the sounds she makes, but in the blogosphere it’s about what comes back from those soundings. It’s the way it all bounces back at you. And I don’t just mean the comments — those are golden, of course — but something else. It’s about the vivosphere, about gathering hums, about sending and receiving messages on channels we don’t really understand. 

That’s what artists do. The story I think I want to hear is not the story I want to hear.  And I am willing to wait.

There’s something about beauty that inspires the desire to connect, and there’s something about connection that points to the divine. But there always seems to be a wall where the divine/infinite should be. We are like birds flying towards a perfect sky only to smash headfirst into the window that’s reflecting it.

Herein illustrates the problem of writing erotica for yourself when you’re too young or too…impatient.

My cheeks are burning as she talks.  We are alone at the office, and she is talking about some recent powerplay: one of our co-workers is grabbing for the recently-vacated manager’s position.  I am barely listening, just enough to throw in an occasional comment.  It is time for both of us to go home, but I just want her to continue talking, not for what she says, but because when she gestures with her hands her breasts jiggle a little.  She is wearing a white cotton knit blouse and jeans.  The blouse is loose, and I keep willing her to position herself in the chair in such a way that it tightens, so I can see the outline of her breasts when she moves.  I can see through the blouse where her bra scoops down and supports her breasts.  She has the nicest breasts I have ever hoped to see.

As I am sitting there, I notice her bra strap uncovered on one shoulder.  A burning sensation fills my legs and move up my abdomen to my cheeks again.  I cannot stand this.

I get up from my chair.  She is a little upset about the recent turn of events, because she had wanted the manager’s job and feels she will not get it now.  I commiserate in low, understanding tones, and walk behind her.  I have never touched Kim before, at least not on purpose.  There have been the little brushes against her hand while showing her something on the computer, and she has an excruciating habit of leaning against my chair while I am sitting there, her hip just touching my side, so that if I were to turn my head toward her I’d be facing those wondrous breasts.  But now I want to touch her for real.

My heart is pounding as I reach for her shoulders and begin massaging. 

“You really are taking this thing pretty seriously, huh?” I said, digging my thumbs in and kneading the tight spots.  By asking her a question I hoped to draw attention away from the fact that I had just stepped over a boundary.  I do not want to scare her off.  She talks more about it, though, as if nothing has happened.  Her voice dropps ever so slightly as I continue to massage.  After a moment she pauses.  There is a silence. 

“Mmmm.  You’ve got good thumbs.  Where’d you learn to massage like that?” she asked.  By the way she says it I know she has closed her eyes.

I make a non-commital reply and continue.  As I massage, I occasionally squeeze her shoulders together from the sides.  When I do this, the front of her blouse opens in an inverted “U” shape, and I look inside.  I see the tops of her breasts descend into the thin material of her bra.  I can see one of her nipples through her bra.  I am looking at the lace top of her bra, where it touches her skin.  I am imagining my fingers reaching under the fabric, ever so slowly, her breast filling my palm.  I’m imagining how my fingers reach her nipple, then my hand cups her from underneath, just holding the gentle weight of her breast.

As my imagination runs wild, I notice how hard my cock has become.  I press myself against the back of the chair, and continue to dig into her shoulders, now working directly on her skin, dipping my thumbs beneath the straps, sliding as far down her back as I can manage, working my fingers over the tops of her shoulders to the front.  I can’t believe I am doing this.  Kim is very quiet now.

I work my fingers down the front of her chest in the tiniest increments, waiting for some sign of protest or of assent.  I am not far down when she emits a little moan and a sigh, ever so slight.  I move my fingers further, still massaging.  I just brush the top of her bra with my fingertip.  My heart is going like mad.

I then do the unthinkable.  I lean down and kiss the downy part of the back of her neck.  She doesn’t move.

I kiss her left shoulder, where it dips away from her neck.  She exhales audibly.  I kiss the left side of her neck, and she tilts her head up to allow me in there. 

I come in my pants.  Then the cleaning people open the door.  I move back to my desk.

“Well, see you tomorrow,” I say, picking up my briefcase and walking, unsteadily, out the door.

“Bye,” she says.

Having spent the last two days at the beach and the pool, I can say that, yes, I still look. I find myself constantly scanning the crowd for that scintillating woman, for the curve of breast, the supple ass with the wet suit barely covering it. It’s just a habit.  I’m looking for flesh and curves and sex, something erotic and hot, but what I find instead is more akin to a cardboard representation of it. And being the way I am, I have to scratch my head and wonder why that is. Why doesn’t a bevy of scantily-clad women turn me on? What is it about swimsuits that just doesn’t do it?

It could be the sheer quantity, I suppose. Maybe my male response pattern just gets overwhelmed and quits, like a squirrel with a gallon bucket of peanut butter who at some point has to stop eating.

I think it’s this, though. Women at the beach or pool are doing nothing in particular. At least, nothing in particular for me. It’s really the oddest slice of life, when you think about it — here we are, all just walking around half-naked in front of each other, doing nothing in particular, relaxing.

Thing is — it’s not the body that’s sexy, it’s the interaction — even if it’s just the fantasy of an interaction. And there is absolutely none there.

Contrast this with being with a woman who is slathering you with sunscreen, slowly, with some obvious pleasure in the way the cream slides over your skin. Obvious pleasure because she knows you, maybe even loves you. You might even feel her wanting you then. If you weren’t totally exposed there in your tiny swimsuit yourself, you might actually get a bit of an erection going.

Or contrast this with — yes — the February swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated. The reason men find these particular bikini-clad women sexy has nothing to do with what they’re wearing (or not wearing). Or rather, it’s not just that. It’s that the models are engaging with you, the audience (the camera), in a way that one can easily fantasize as an interaction. She’s looking so unlike any woman you ever see at the beach, not because she’s stunning but because she’s saying — I want you. I want you to come into this picture and touch me. I’m here for you. Notice also that there’s only one model in each of these pictures. Imagine if there were 25 of them in the picture, all looking at the camera (you) like they want you to touch them. A little overwhelming, right? A little creepy and unreal, right? Or imagine the same 25 women, all doing just what women normally do at the beach — nothing in particular, ignoring you. Not gonna get your rocks off on that tableau either, are you?

A woman doesn’t go to the pool wearing her next-to-nothing swimsuit in hopes of getting laid. If she wants that, she doesn’t go to a pool (unless it’s her private one), and she’ll wear much more. She’s not there trying to turn you on. She’s not trying to be sexy, or alluring. She just wants to feel good about the way she looks and to be comfortable. And even though it’s all T&A, it’s not sex that’s on display. It’s basic health.

So I will continue to follow the sway of those hips, and trace the contour of breasts inside those tiny suits, but it’s not much more exciting for me than the study of basic anatomy.

It is rare to have nothing planned. It is a luxury, in fact, that many people covet. During the week, there’s work. On the weekend, there are usually plans that I may or may not have been a part of creating. This past Friday, I unexpectedly had the day to myself — the kids in camp, my manager happy with my week’s work and willing to indulge a little pre-Fourth loafing — and my wife banging away on a deadline.

Each morning, I’m certain of one thing — I’m going to have coffee. A really strong cup of coffee, the milk heated 44 seconds in the microwave. A really perfect cup of coffee. Beyond that, though, on a day with no plans, it gets a little fuzzy.

On a day with no plans — especially on a beautiful, perfect day with no plans — my heart races, and it’s not just that coffee. It’s the possibilities, stupid — the seemingly endless possibilities for the day. In my mind, I’m doing everything, all in one day. The little nagging chores — the dust bunnies on the basement stairs, the weeds poking out between the driveway and the stone wall — I’m doing those in a flash. Devising a way to send my lover a gift, and deciding what it will be — all laid out in front of me, ready for me to do in an instant. Writing a blog entry about the kids, so long overdue, so much more about the future than about the now. Exercising — finally using those running shoes that are built for cross-country running, going over to that woodsy park.  Smoking a little bit of pot — hmm, now we’re drifting into lullaby, no-productivity-land, but so be it — it’s my day, right? Isn’t it? Oh — and I’ll go run those errands that I never get to. Home Depot. Oh, and maybe I’ll dig up those borders in the front where the shrubs used to be, then I’ll design an entire garden and plant it — yeah, and I’ll do that today. With time left for lazing in the back yard, or for throwing the ball around with my son when he gets home. And of course I’ll finally acknowledge my nephew’s birth — send a card, or a gift.

I am so excited on such a morning! I’m going to do it all, because I’m infinite.   I am all possibilities — I am America, and this is my story.

And then — the day starts. The coffee cup is empty. It’s time to decide what to do, really. And that’s when the dread starts. Because time begins to slip away — even lingering over the coffee takes time. The number of hours left for myself dwindles, and every little thing takes time. What I do seems paltry compared with what I hoped to do. Every action, every decision eats into the rest of the day, and costs ten alternatives.  The dread comes from wanting everything but not feeling driven in any one direction, of not having a Must-Do thing on my mind, not having one thing that makes me tick, that goes to the top of the list, a thing that is my “ultimate concern” and my center, my purpose — I don’t have that one thing I can’t wait to do, or that I Must Do.

I can’t do it all, I realize. I must decide, I realize. Do I squander that time on myself? Do I fulfill an obligation? Do I make art? Do I do something that’s only a beginning, that may never be completed?  And the clock keeps ticking.

I am America, and this is my story. I am infinite possibility meeting its ugly brother, the finite.  And I must decide what to do – which responsibilities to shoulder, which to shirk. Whether to sink into consumerist oblivion or wake up and — do what?  Is it all about me? Or is it all about us? A little bit of both with a pinch of nothingness?

Happy Birthday, America. May you act based on your center or, lacking a center, may you take a day off, stop being so damned productive and try to find it.

When the air is dry, skin feels like it’s at its peak of aliveness, like the natural order of it is to be touched, caressed. I remember an evening once, when I was just entering puberty, when the air felt exactly like this and I was outside in the dark, in our back yard, and I felt so — randy, without knowing what that was – and so I took off my clothes and let the air caress me. At the time I had not yet discovered other options – did not know what to do with such desire – yet it remains one of the signature erotic events of my life. 

There’s something about the way skin feels in this weather that’s just heavenly. Your skin tingles. And when your hands glide across her body — because they are completely dry, there’s no sticking, not even the slightest resistance as you caress her, just pure electricity jumping back at you. The only moistness is exactly where you want it. This is exactly why silk feels so good — caressing her body through silk imitates caressing her body without it when the dewpoint is low. 

By contrast — think of those hot, muggy days and nights. Personally, I can’t stand being touched in that weather. I don’t care how sexy you are, my skin just seems to naturally repel anything and everything. And caressing? You can’t caress — your hand just sticks to her skin and pulls it with you when you try to move.  And when you’re in the thick of it, body to body, you’re either slipping around in a slick of sweat, or you’re stuck to her like a vinyl shower curtain. Either way, you gotta really want it.

That’s why I love air conditioning.