Freeform

There is a sense in an orgasm, a sensibility, that wakes up the dead and wanders into the kitchen at midnight for a late night snack while a blue-tinted tube snaking radiation into eyes, ears and anuses exhorts and lies in a background that reminds one of younger days spent learning the craft of spurting semen into wild women who remember the first consonant of your name but, never the whole thing, and certainly not you; how could a woman -- America's gift to the modern world -- be tied to the string of mediocre seed you seek to anchor her with; to tie her legs down, change her name and grow old together with until her genitals and yours are nearly the same, yes, orgasms are a common bond in youth but in the aged they are a solitary pursuit that are as lachrymose as they are lascivious and I believe that old people must cum to innoculate themselves against death just as surely as the young do it to feel the rush of life in their faces, young dogs with their heads hanging out the car window, and late at night things crawl into your brain and insinuate themselves and sex becomes weaponry for a life that has brought all of human history, your fathers' and mothers' fathers and mothers -- and on back to intelligent design or a rhesus monkey or whatever your politics would have you believe, into this aching search for the bottom of a vagina or the tip of a penis and then into the night for a snack.