“SEX WITHOUT LOVE IS A MEANINGLESS EXPERIENCE, BUT AS FAR AS MEANINGLESS EXPERIENCES GO, IT’S PRETTY DAMN GOOD.” - WOODY ALLEN 

I have always accrued status and validation through my indiscretions, but sex is also recreational for me. We all need something to help us unwind at the end of the day. You might have a glass of wine, or a joint, or a big delicious blob of heroin to silence your silly brainbox of its witterings, but there has to be some sort of punctuation, or life just seems utterly relentless.
And this is what sex provides for me—a breathing space, when you’re outside of yourself and your own head. Especially in the moment of climax, where you literally go, “Ah, there’s that, then. I’ve unwound. I’ve let go.” Not without good reason do the French describe an orgasm as a “little death.” That’s exactly what it is for me (in a good way though, obviously)—a little moment away, a holiday from my head. I hoped death is like a big French orgasm, although meeting Saint Peter will be embarrassing, all smothered in sperm and shrouded in post-orgasmic guilt.
 


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