Is that all you ever think about?

One of the discussions that grew out of a rollick Monday Morning Mini-Poll ended on this note:

As to whether fucking in general is boring, it depends on what you're talking about. I find pornography boring. I don't find actual sex-having boring at all. I've never actually watched two people have sex, and I like to think I wouldn't find it boring initially, because of the novelty. After a while, it would just be live pornography, hence dull. What exactly are you arguing here?

My flippant answer is, Who says I'm arguing anything and not simply shooting my mouth off again? But there must be a serious answer lurking in me somewhere.

I find sex like any other routine, life-sustaining activity. At times, you have the energy and creativity to spice it up, but often you settle for something basic that lives you merely contented. It's like eating. Most eating is boring; I'm not always counting chews until I can swallow, but there's a reason why the meals I detail in my journal stand out and that is a background of indifferent stir-fries, decent sandwiches, and salty instant soups.

Similarly, there are some really intense bouts of sexual activity that stand out in my mind, but they're just not an everyday thing. We have a well-stocked toy chest that we simply don't have the time, energy, and interest to make much use of--much as Monshu has a well-stocked kitchen that's mostly used to make simple pastas and reheat leftovers. I'm not counting teeth or thrusts, but my mind can wander. I mean, honestly, haven't you ever found yourself thinking, God, I hope he comes soon so I can go back to what I was doing?

Not that I'm complaining. Even merely adequate food gives you a pleasant feeling of being full, if only for a few hours. And I know he must be thinking the same thing from time to time, so I do my best not to show impatience (which, of course, only kills the mood for the other person and makes everything take even longer). Plus, cautionary tales about pushing the limits for the next new thrill abound. I find that confidence in the possibility of pushing the limits from time to time takes away much of my urge to actually do it.

I've also watched a fair amount of other people having sex and I don't know if the novelty hasn't completely worn off or if it actually is a little more interesting than pornography. With filmed sex--even something like HBO's Real Sex--people are conscious of playing to the camera and it lends the act an air of artificiality that I find off-putting. Not that people don't ever play to an audience in a group-sex situation, but it's easier for them to lose themselves in the act and you get to see the cuddling, false starts, curious reactions, and negotiation that are more intriguing than the straightforward ass-poundings that fill commercial porn. Plus, the illusion (or, in many situations, the actual possibility) you could join in is much stronger, which adds to the thrill.

Still, most of what these people actually do in terms of sex acts is nothing special. Oh, wow, another blow job! How outré! Add in the fact that they're likely driven to be more adventurous and acrobatic by the exceptional setting, and the obvious conclusion is that most of their sex--like most of their conversation, exercise, reading, work, etc.--is pretty ho-hum.

(Excuse me--I have to go beat off now.

sepulchral sychronicity

I was glad I did it, but my cemetery trip didn't really turn out as planned. Thanks to all the sousing at the sushi house, I slept in and got a very late start. The air was warm, but the sky was overcast; Monshu thought the front that had been promised for Sunday was coming in "early". (That is to say, it was coming in right on time and shame on me for treating meteorological estimates of its time of arrival as anything other than sheer guesswork.)

It was surprisingly warm and humid, in fact, and I wasn't disappointed at the lack of sun. I ate a few slices of bread and got going, arriving at the east entrance to Rosehill in the early afternoon. I paused among the Union solider graves the read the names, still breathtakingly legible despite the years. The one that really stood out was "Napoleon McClintock". Suddenly, some of the character names I'd come across didn't seem quite so far-fetched.

I made my way to the goose pond and sat there quietly for a while. It was wonderful; only after I got up and started moving again did I realise that mundane concerns had floated totally out of my head for forty minutes or more. By then, the weather was starting to look threatening and I tried to think of places to take shelter in case of a squall. I steered clear of the old chapel, which seemed to be the site of a service, and made my goal the gazebo in the Korean section.

I was closing in on it--I forget how large the place is--when the large drops began to fall. I sought the most sheltering tree in sight, a large mulberry. The wind was blowing rain at a steep angle, so I kept the trunk between me and it. I had expected a brief downpour like the one that caught me out the previous Sunday, but it never materialised. So I reconsidered making it to the gazebo. As I remembered it, the sides were open and, with a blowing rain, I might get wet even there. But if I didn't, it would be a great place to sit and read for a while.

So I dashed past the new chapel complex and around the pond. On the south side was a small block of low walls that I didn't remember from my last trip. They demarcated small plots with smooth granite benches and blank headstones. Not a one was occupied. I made it to the other side of them, dashed up the slope, and sat down inside the Palkakceng or "Eight-sided pavillion" without getting substantially damper.

But the rain couldn't decide to rain. It would speed up, never quite reach downpour, and soon drop back to a drizzle again. It sank in that this was likely to continue indefinitely and it was already darkening, so I made my way back down the slope to the western entrance and caught a bus. A few stops later, I changed to a packed eastbound bus that took far too long to make it to Monshu's neighbourhood. But once there, I hied it to his apartment.

He was busily working on his laptop at the dining table; the day's mail was lying at his left. "That came for you," he said as I picked up a mailing from Rosehill on the top of the stack. It was an ad for their "Premium Burial Plots" and featured an illustration of the empty Schrebergräble I'd walked through barely an hour earlier. When I told him that, he reached into the stack and saying, "I meant this one," handed me the notice of an apartment for sale in his building