The thing which makes us orgasm is the thing which makes us sad. She has been medicated for a year and with that the sex is gone. She is no longer sad. She no longer has orgasms. These two things intrinsically linked.
I am walking on a fine layer of ice. Beneath this is the plunge and the drowning in all that burning cold emotion. There are rocks in my pockets and I weigh heavily on the cracking surface. Sometimes I find balance and I am skating. I am making ecstatic patterns with my feet. Sometimes each footfall is a hammer, breaking things that might have remained intact. Always I pick a tenuous path on the whole brittle mess of it.
She has been medicated for a year and in all this time she hasn't orgasmed.
The dance on the ice is an extreme sport. I am watched by the few who know me enough to care. I hold out my hand and one or the other of them dances with me for a moment, retreating when the brittle surface is scratched and nicked and threatening collapse.
She. A year, and numb to the possibility of sex. A whole year.
So now it is just me out on the ice. I walk softly. Pretending that there is no threat of drowning. And it is beautiful out here, on my own, with the shift that has occurred which will edge me towards evening. Change of light. Change of season. And the orgasms are like the Southern Lights, always overwhelmingly beautiful, and the world butting up against my skin all crisp and painful and bright. And when I am sad, I am sad with every inch of my skin. And when I am happy it is luminous. So long as the ice holds I will be alright. I will keep walking. I will keep walking.