As predicted, Doc Savage’s last column stirred up the hornets of desire, with women piping in to claim that they too were horny all the time. Right on, sisters, now what are your numbers? http://thestranger.com/savage/lustyladies
I like this correspondent’s take so much I’m quoting her: “The idea that we each have only one true soul mate with whom we will live in harmonious and uncomplicated bliss for all eternity is a crock of shit. If people would focus their attention on finding a partner who, while not perfect, shares most of their core values and at least a few of their personal interests, and then treat their partner’s sexual desires with respect and an eagerness to ensure their fulfillment in whatever way that works for that individual, we’d have many more happily coupled people in this world. We have to not only destroy the idea that good sex is some kind of automatic bonus dropped in your lap when you meet Mr. or Ms. Right, we also have to destroy the idea that there is only one particular Mr. or Ms. Right for each person in whom all relationship problems will magically vanish.”
I just can’t imagine being with someone and not wanting to fuck. All this hot talk reminds me of my last relationship: she lived out of town, so when we saw each other we usually had sex twice Friday night, with dinner in between, then Saturday morning, Saturday night, Sunday morning, Sunday afternoon, Sunday night, and Monday morning, give or take a boff or two. Ummm, nap sex. I was usually a wreck by Monday night, but that’s what Monday nights are for. After all, you can sleep when you’re dead. Sometimes these were quickies, sometimes playful fantasy scenarios, sometimes long and leisurely explorations. I have a pretty high sex drive. In a nicely complementary way, so did she. Other things were missing though. What a balancing act it is!
I had lunch with the Composer today. We met on 4th Avenue, in a café called Mule. I had a hot chocolate (the overly sweet variety preferred by most American venues) and a grilled cheese with sundried tomatoes on thin foccacio; it was too oily, needed more cheese, and was too skimpy all around. She had a glass of water and a pressed sandwich of cured meat and cheese, but it needed to be pressed more. So I’m not recommending the place for eats. But by gosh, if you have a Mac Icebook, you’ll feel right at home (I have one, but it was still weird; did they have a No Windows sticker on the window?) I used to live right around the corner from the place, the corner where a church has replaced the radical bookshop (o tempora, o mores!).
All in all, I thought it was a good reconnaissance. I will attempt to continue the reconnoitering.