As should be the case for every writer with aspiration, I have been considering the topic of my next book, and, yes, it is going to be about SEX! All, and exclusively about SEX.
SEX, SEX, SEX.
Not your red rose and champagne, not your erecting smooth columns in moist valleys sort of sex, but sex. Sex as in confrontational, as in language for the inarticulate, for the articulate, as in what the fuck is sex about sex. (Excuse the language, but sex brings forth unacceptable language and difficult emotions.) I wish to separate the physicality of sex, which we all understand, from the desire, which none of us do, the latter being an enclosed world of complexities and needs.
I have been talking about sex with daughters, an ex-lover and with my ex-wife's second husband among others, and, despite its exploitation by advertisers, despite the pressures of the commercial world, despite what we believe we understand about sex and, especially, the status bestowed on it by peers, church and society, our individual understanding remains intensely personal and foreign. (Quelle suprise.)
There is the animalistic need for sex, for procreation and the purely physical requirement of sexual relief; there are also the layers of mystification about the act. Even though we are animals, we do not fuck as animals - or, to contradict myself - we do but find that simple act difficult to accept. To do so requires gift-wrapping. It is the gift-wrapping and the reasons for it that I wish to explore.