Let me now make love with my head. It is difficult. In the discussion of sex all of the blood seems to rush to my groin. What begins as a conversation ends with a bodily hunger that consumes all semblance of ordinary human interaction. I stop listening. I am overtaken instead by stray scents, a touch, the viscosity of bodily fluids. People are reduced to a touch. The sense of their words is muted as that other channel, the frequency of sex, is turned up to a deafening level.
I must read sex and understand it. This is where my study has led me, towards French Theorists who are ironically impenetrable, towards Sontag who is glorious until her discussion of Sade causes the blood to rush to my vagina and I find myself wondering how it would be to feel her lips on me, discussing sexuality without words, her luscious thick hair water-falling around my hips. My study of sexuality is a strange unbalanced interplay between head and groin. I have set out to become a thinker of sex and yet, every time I think of it I am drawn back into the voracious appetite of my body.
And so I read the theory of it all, the mechanations of the act of writing about sex removed from the bodily participation in the act, and yet the sludge of my desire sullies the pristine pages of Foucault.