As a reporting issue, as I was walking around the library stretching my legs and such, I found this book under the shelf of hiking/moutaineering books called "Tongue First:Adventures in Physical Culture". And since the author pic was a of a woman in a bath towel, I thought maybe it would shed light into the world.

So I picked it up and started speed reading it, begining at a section called "fucking". The chapter started off examining her sensations and responses to a male strip show, proceeded to her ruminations on the differences in male/female sexuality and finally a discussion on the more relevant piece of swapping lists of former fuckbuddies(17 groped/made out with, 11 dicks engulfed as she put it) with her friends as a sign of "being with it". Perhaps she didn't hear of Grucho Marx's joke of not wanting to belong to a club which will have her as a member. So I am putting this note here as a reminder to write and explore on this theme a little more in the future.

Meanwhile Wendell Berry on "Industrial" Sex:

It is odd that simply because of its ‘sexual freedom’ our time should be considered extraordinarily physical. In fact, our ‘sexual revolution’ is mostly an industrial phenomenon, in which the body is used as a idea of pleasure or a pleasure machine with the aim of ‘freeing’ natural pleasure from natural consequence. Like any other industrial enterprise, industrial sexuality seeks to conquer nature by exploiting it and ignoring the consequences, by denying any connection between nature and spirit or body and soul, and by evading social responsibility. The spiritual, physical, and economic costs of this ‘freedom’ are immense, and are characteristically belittled or ignored. The diseases of sexual irresponsibility are regarded as a technological problem and an affront to liberty. Industrial sex, characteristically, establishes its freeness and goodness by an industrial accounting, dutifully toting up numbers of ‘sexual partners,’ orgasms, and so on, with the inevitable industrial implication that the body is somehow a limit on the idea of sex, which will be a great deal more abundant as soon as it can be done by robots.

One March night, at the end of winter A Midwestern wind snapping at my brown coat I para-dropped into your city to make Another (the final) attempt to break the siege.

There I took your always cold hands, Squirreled them in my pockets, Quickly leaned over and kissed you.

You later observed, this was without The usual tentativeness that my lips had in renewing introductions with yours.

Then instead to the expected ball, You took me to a quite household That was thirty odd years in making.

As if watching these two people together Would provide us the recipe to their secret skill (Recipe: Two large hearts, infinite patience, never Ever giving up on giving one self gladly, happily) To create a green river of peaceable laughter To invite others as we were invited to drink at.

I borrowed and conjured up this: an old car for me, Sets of mismatched wine glasses and plates in the kitchen, A desk flanked by plants I would help you keep. Books, Shelves of books with our initials and then two, maybe three, kids.

Was it more than these you came to desire, After I left at dawn, leaning into the cold, That you fucked three people the very next week?

The poem you had scribbled on Your hand was washed away.

Yet you hold it to the bulb to transcribe, Somehow, that script of a moment’s sudden grief.

You had written of how you feel frozen Like a statue of limestone dissolving in the rain.

That slow vanishing taking as long as it had taken You to fashion this version of limbs, grin and gesture.

You called this a glass, a windshield of rock, a view That had cracked open like parched ground by repeated droughts.

All the cracks, since then accruing a secondary life; dead memories, Splattered insect bodies and wings, the hennaed pattern on your hand.

You had begun to wipe those lines away as soon as you wrote them, A turbid patina, rough, blistered with flying gravel, grating the bone.

However on the first touch of hand to the penis, you only leave the shape Of your hand in red ink, a Chinese seal that says “empty, hollow despair”.

But you don’t stop there, you don’t give up. You continue to polish With infinite patience, till you draw water from the old wells of wounding.

Till what was a rough ribbed stone, your sandpaper hand, Glitters like marble in the dark, a chip off Taj Mahal.

You turn it to your face, and see a mirror And nothing beyond it but your sweaty brown face.

Remember this well, this sweat is the tax That every stranger has to pay to become

Another exile!