I send her a letter which is a file contained within an email, and the letter is about a letter which is actually an email. Anyway it is a communication and a reaction to words, specifically the word 'cunt'. I do not react to this word in real life, but in the communication my reaction is earth-shifting, orgasm-inducing. In the letter, language still has the power to transform me. The language of sex that is.
I speak sex almost fluently by now and yet it is an ever-changing language. My vocabulary grows daily. I am immersed in the study of sex. Three years with nothing else as my focus. Perhaps this means that at the end of this time there will be no more words for me to learn, and yet there are always new words for it. My education will never be complete.
Still, at the end of it I may go back to using sex as something hidden within the folds of a text, parting the damp pages with sweating palms, one finger inserted to hold your place, a page turned down, the shadow of a stain blotting the paper where your excitement has marked this as the best bit. One tiny sentence that holds enough erotic charge to move you with a hint of a wink, or one paragraph, one chapter, and when you return to the work, the rest will hide the sex as effectively as the body folding back over it, legs crossed, knees together, you will not read it the same way. You will have been changed by what we have shared, reader and writer fused together by this fissure in the chaste surface of the real world. No one else in the library or in the cafe or on the bus will know that I have put a part of myself inside you, and at the height of our shared pleasure, the ejaculate of my words is left inside you as I withdraw, effecting you, growing something in you that we have made together. The product of this odd understanding of love.