What you like doing/having done.
We used to talk, but after a while, there wasn’t anything more to say. Now it’s about asking for things. Frequency. When one person is unhappy, what is the other willing to do that won’t make them unhappy. I’ll trade you one of these on Monday for one of those on Tuesday.
It seems sacriligious. Making love should be like a dance, without words (we’re both dancers). It involves a different way of communicating, and words seem to destroy that. They turn it into a mechanical, unsoulful kind of thing. Making love with someone you love is sacred for me. Mystical. Ineffable.
It’s like when religious people experience God. You’re not supposed to say the name of God, because God is beyond understanding. Well, for me, making love is like that, and talking about it kind of destroys that feeling. It doesn’t matter when you talk about it, because if you do it in some neutral time, you remember it next time you make love, and, well, the dance is gone.
I mean, blowjob? Hand job? Go down? Greek? Conventional? It’s like you are engaging in a commercial transaction with a prostitute.
Now, maybe, if you have a sense of humor about it, you might be able to talk about it without destroying the feeling of it. Unfortunately, neither my wife nor I have much of a sense of humor. Everything is always serious with us. Some people in cyberland have told me they think I have a good sense of humor, but it’s not the same in the real world.
Anyway, that’s how I feel about it. That’s why the triple yuck.
I mean, I have no problem listening to other people talk about it, and in a clinical setting or a classroom setting, I can distance myself from it and talk about it. Hell, I can even write about it—in other contexts (and I do that well), but that’s all different. That’s not serious. Not sacred. Not private because it is my own, deep down, truely essential feeling that is so fragile, it must be protected in any way I can come up with. That is where daloon is finally daloon.