I want to get to the end of sex. Maybe I already have, and this is just the tying up of loose ends.
Some of us have more loose ends than others.
You know, I still see sex, like I see everything else, as a test. And I know I have failed this one.
Is it possible to pass?
I admire how you keep on going, like a marathon runner, like a craftsman, like Foucault.
Do you think that Foucault worried that if he gave up sex, he’d run out of ideas? Do you think he thought he thought with his cock? Do you feel like that too? There is something in it. Your writing is sexy. So is Michel’s, on a good day. But I think it lasts, the influence of the sex on the writing. I don’t think you have to keep refilling the tank, if you know what I mean. Your work is not a 4×4. But men seem to write ‘sex theory’ sexier than women, on the whole. I am sure that is something to do with the phallus aren’t you? If you were forced to choose between being stuck alone on a desert island with ‘History of Sexuality Vol 1’ or ‘This Sex Which Is Not One’ by Iragaray, I know which one you’d choose.
Sometimes I want to be all those things for you that you don’t get from sex (or that I imagine you don’t): cups of tea in the morning, a quick trip out to get the paper and some eggs for breakfast, my hand on your knee in the pub, a pint and a stupid argument about Bersani’s rectum-grave. I want to lie down with you in the grass, and feel the warmth of your body next to mine as we look up at the sky and our minds slowly empty for the first time since… for the first time? I don’t even want to be these things in a cloying romantic way. I don’t even mind if it’s not me (in fact I’d rather it wasn’t). But I want them for you. Even if you don’t think you want them yourself.
All that sex and no love can make a man lonely and cold.
Some people say sex is a ‘moment of love’. I have probably said it myself. But I don’t really think that is true. It can be as devoid of love or compassion as any act between two people.
I think sex is just a fight, a tussle, a struggle for pleasure and power. And then nothing.
Love is more gentle. Selfless. Calm. Love is lying in that grass, as the sun goes down, a bottle of wine by our sides and nothing to do. Nowhere to be. The world stood still. I haven’t had that for about a million years have you? Have you ever?
Can two men really lie in the grass together, that calm and relaxed? Without being ‘married’ and respectably gay? I know it looks like they could from reading Isherwood. But I am not so sure.
(And anyway Isherwood happened a million years ago when homosexuals still walked the earth as if it belonged to them. You know how the history books make out that being a homo was all about skulking in the shadows, diving into alleyways, glory holes, prisons? That was one side of it but then there was the other-the ‘invisible homo’ who was free to do as he pleased, because nobody acknowledged his existence.)
Now it seems gay men have to be either the respectable, marrying, monogamous types, or the party hard play hard fuck hard sluts of mythology. There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground. Any space for them, for you, just to be.
I hope you get to the end of sex one day.
I hope you get to lie in the grass with someone.
What is the point else, of all this?