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I’m good at love but terrible at sex


The last I saw you, you weren’t doing well. Sallow. Pale. Sort of puffy. I hope that things are shaping up and that the mania has subsided. I can’t offer you any advice. I have yet to deal with this problem myself.

As far as sex and love: I can tell you all about love. I’m good at love. I love falling in love, being in love, and watching the way love turns from that smile-producing obsession into that round, soft, comfortable thing that you remember only when you see you mate walking in the front yard, cooking breakfast, or running the vacuum. Love starts out with everything racing toward the end of the world. Then, it becomes ordinary after a time, and this is where many people confuse it with boredom.

On the other hand, I don’t understand sex. I think people often get sex confused with love. I did, often. Sex is a sneaking thing, a chemical something that prevents us always knowing its origins. We wrap our ethics around it so we can justify short-cornering our principles. Perfectly compassionate and sensitive human beings become cold, hard, and cruel when it comes to the feelings of others. I don’t get it. I like it. But I don’t get it.

Plus, people look so ridiculous when they have sex. They do silly, contrived things around physical congress that they would never do or stand in their walking-around lives.

Maybe if I could associate physical activity and love of another together more often? The satisfaction of the body with the fulfillment of the soul?

Maybe. But the O-face still says it all.

I have to run. The kids . . .


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