Left Wanting
I have been thinking about
sex a lot, lately. If I qualify
that by adding “more than
usual,” all things being relative,
I think I’d just wonder how much
more I think of it than most people
do. Surely? Anyway, I’ve a few
ideas why such things are on my
mind a bit more than average
these days, or it might be easy
to come up with a few somewhat
reasonable suspects. Objectively?
I’m not certain I could be 100%,
but there are things true to me that
I’m sure I could make convincing
were I to argue an explanation.
However, with apologies, I wouldn’t
put any of you through that sort of
torture. Mostly, I’m thinking that the
person belonging to a head that is
even more overwhelmed than usual
with thoughts of sex might have a bit
of difficulty focusing on the things that
absolutely must get done, distasteful
protestant fundamentalist notion
that that is. But it happens. And
how could it not be that one thing
would lead logically to the other?
The non-protestant answer to this
problem would appear to me to be
go out and get some. And is that
not logical? So that one might live.
What is living, after all, without
the occasional bit of physical fun.
That is all I shall say here. And
the discipline it took to get
here telling you (only) this
has, as far as I can tell,
only further frustrated
this poor writer. And yet,
this overwhelmed mind is
a bit amused at how these
lines, even with such a
subject matter, say almost
nothing. Which makes me
eager to lay out the wild
and expansive set of circum
stances that have landed me
here just to leave you hanging.
That is, if I have even begun to
sell my sorry story that is nothing,
really, but a notion with a big hole
blown clean through most of it,
leaving a mess that, on the whole,
is quite skeletal, nothing but
a carapace really, despite the one
hint that would require at least
a bit of flesh so that all here
might be reconciled; so that the
idea might bloom into a story that
comes to a properly salacious
conclusion. Ever the love robot…
Nerd poem. Dismissing asexual
tendencies? The poem as outcast.
I have been thinking about
sex a lot, lately. If I qualify
that by adding “more than
usual,” all things being relative,
I think I’d just wonder how much
more I think of it than most people
do. Surely? Anyway, I’ve a few
ideas why such things are on my
mind a bit more than average
these days, or it might be easy
to come up with a few somewhat
reasonable suspects. Objectively?
I’m not certain I could be 100%,
but there are things true to me that
I’m sure I could make convincing
were I to argue an explanation.
However, with apologies, I wouldn’t
put any of you through that sort of
torture. Mostly, I’m thinking that the
person belonging to a head that is
even more overwhelmed than usual
with thoughts of sex might have a bit
of difficulty focusing on the things that
absolutely must get done, distasteful
protestant fundamentalist notion
that that is. But it happens. And
how could it not be that one thing
would lead logically to the other?
The non-protestant answer to this
problem would appear to me to be
go out and get some. And is that
not logical? So that one might live.
What is living, after all, without
the occasional bit of physical fun.
That is all I shall say here. And
the discipline it took to get
here telling you (only) this
has, as far as I can tell,
only further frustrated
this poor writer. And yet,
this overwhelmed mind is
a bit amused at how these
lines, even with such a
subject matter, say almost
nothing. Which makes me
eager to lay out the wild
and expansive set of circum
stances that have landed me
here just to leave you hanging.
That is, if I have even begun to
sell my sorry story that is nothing,
really, but a notion with a big hole
blown clean through most of it,
leaving a mess that, on the whole,
is quite skeletal, nothing but
a carapace really, despite the one
hint that would require at least
a bit of flesh so that all here
might be reconciled; so that the
idea might bloom into a story that
comes to a properly salacious
conclusion. Ever the love robot…
Nerd poem. Dismissing asexual
tendencies? The poem as outcast.
