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2004-11-16 - 9:52 a.m.

ďA dancer, even nude, is the very apotheosis of sexuality.Ē Ė My own summation of Sartre. (The real quote has a lot of circular Existentialist semantic.)

I will give this warning. What follows probably shouldnít be read by those who canít see Team America without a parent or guardian. Iíve wandered into delicate matters with my usual crass and over-generalized humor, and Iíve never worried about such babblings, but when one talks with honesty about such matters, something about the fabric of the words rubs the skin in a way you just donít feel in the juvenile ramblings Iím so prone to. That said, please only read on if youíre allowed free reign in movie theaters, or if the images Iím about to describe arenít ones you want floating around in your mind.

In the last few months Iíve gained a new perspective on the world of sex. Think of it like Monet. Up close the dots and splashes run rampant with abandon; streams of color trickling over every surface, but take a few steps back and the shapes start to meld together into something cogent, something palpable rather than something that so immersive it drowns the senses.

What I miss is the moment before. The moment; that one hanging moment when it drips. Whatever the kiss, the embrace, the words, there is a pause, and the eyes go heavy with intention. They drip. It catches your breath if it means something; so tenuous, tender, and breakable that moment. It drips and catches you there. You canít look away no matter how hard your reason, your thoughts, might try to drag your gaze skyward; not if there is passion in it. It doesnít require passion, but when it doesÖIt drips.

I donít miss the condoms. One of my few surviving moral certainties is that one does not occur without the other, but still, there is no slick way to make with the application. Iíve heard a woman describe with explicit detail the manner and method to apply lube to certain delicate areas without your partner noticing, but thatís a woman. Women are forever more devious than we men are. Not that we donít try, weíre just not any good at it. Iíll be frank, the application can go by smoothly so long as itís done properly; a presentation of tools at hand. Granted, at any other point, in any other mindset such a show would be, for lack of a better term, icky, but there and then, itís passable. Itís the actual opening of the wrapper that does the damage, because one out of three will fight you. The anger one generally feels for a stubborn bag of chips magnified thirty-fold tends to ebb on oneís dexterity, and the moment the guy has the thought, ďMaybe if I use my teeth,Ē sheís all ready having second thoughts.

I miss the reveal. Never one for button ripping, outside of special conditions, it is the slow reveal of the skin that makes one tremble so. The lips expand to the neck, to the collar and below, and below, and below, with each passing move, the revelation and then desire doubled over. Each turn and twist offering an acquiescence that screams for the next, and the next, and the next, until there is too much to even bear.

I donít know what music to play. No fucking clue. A child of Sub-Pop, I still bow to the masters of grunge, but there is nothing in Pearl Jamís ďJeremyĒ that screams ďcome and get it, mama.Ē Make out music alone befuddles me, marking each interlude Iíve enjoyed in a car with a giggle when Green Day pops on the radio. ďWhen masturbationís lost its fun, yer fucking crazy!Ē Especially if you mouth the words. Rock and punk donít seem to fit the bill except for internal monologue: Sid Vicious singing ďMy Way.Ē Still, I canít see wandering into the land of Hip Hop. Again, nothing alluring about me mouthing the words ďI love it when you call me big papa!ÖCome on, throw your hands in the air, if youís a true player! Come onÖWhat? IÖWhat?Ē

The lines. The way the body leads your hands, arms, legs, all of it, along the trails etched in warmth. There is no moment when you touch. It all touches you, leading you along if you can listen to it sing you by. The magic in fingers blushing flesh isnít in the mind, but the necessity of where it needs touching; where the folds beg, and curves crave. Dragging, scratching, or barely touching you are moved. Moved around, down, just barely by. Just barely by what needs.

I have a pimple on my butt. A large, red, fucking annoying pimple. If the lump of the teat werenít big enough, the large red blast area surrounding it is large enough to be considered an areola. The bastard just popped making a comfortable sit somewhat elusive. Itís annoying, and more than mildly uncomfortable, but thatís my pain, my burden to bear. Thanks to the fact that I wear pants, no one really has to share in my ass-nipple. But God forbid, post coital I have to make a run for the bathroom, and suddenly my tushie is winking at the woman goodly enough to share my futon. Iím sure no oneís done the study, but I can say with all confidence more morning-after pills have been taken thanks to odd polyps and crop circles tattooed onto someoneís ass than broken prophylactics.

I miss the morning. Light pouring in through windows, doorframes, cracks in the plaster, drenching the room in bright comfort. Between sheets all ready buzzing, now baked in the morning sun, the skin tingles, beside someone without paint, pomp, or cleverness. The night washes away every last drop of artifice weíd pull to ourselves. The first sight, very first, being that face across the covers, still peaceful and glowing in the early hours. That quiet, and then the sounds, after time passes and a slow hand lulls them back.

I do like waking up happy, especially if Iím not in the wet spot.

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