I’m sitting on my front porch, on a beautiful day, and this snatch of dialogue came to me. I don’t know if anybody I was ever with said it, but it rings true, if only for me.
One night, we were alone. We’d been drinking. We? I, at least, had been, anyway. We drank the cheap white wine, sold in the three liter glass jugs. It was from California, but it didn’t really matter. Both of us were in it for the buzz, betting it would get there before the puking started.
“You like sex, don’t you?” She asked, matter of factly, and out of the blue. She had a knack for cutting to the chase.
“Wish I could. But I hate that feeling. Vulnerable, exposed. It’s not just my thighs I’m opening, you know. Men don’t get that. Maybe some women too. But there I am, my cunt, my heart, my head, exposed, like a grand biopsy of me. And I fucking hate that I need somebody else!”