I remember when I was a kid and I’d have an erection in the morning, I had to do acrobats to pee in the toilet. It scared me because I thought something was really wrong, and there was no way I was going to ask anyone about it. Today, I welcome a morning salute.
It never ceases to amaze me what power sexual tension has — sometimes to the point of becoming irrational. And this can be a good thing. In love, concepts like reason, logic and moderation diffuse what we really want and need in a sexual union, namely boundless, wild passion.
I looked over the bank behind me and sure enough there was a rainbow and the birches blazed with yellow and gold in the first light of the morning sun. It all lasted about three minutes. Then the rain quit, and the sun was up, and the rainbow faded.
The problem is that I’ve lots of sexual ideas, sexual things I’d like to try and stuff stewing on the back burner, but unfortunately, much of it is for later or when I think through that idea better. The worst thing you’ve probably done several times yourself: you wait until “the moment is right”.
Contrast the sound of flaccid with tumescent (swelling). Every guy would rather be tumescent, right? Isn’t every man’s dread to grow flaccid at an inappropriate time. It’s an absolute hellish experience.
I attempted suicide last night. That’s right. I tried to kill myself with two tablespoons of all-natural peanut butter on two slices of 12-grain bread. What the heck is happening in my world when I can almost honestly say that?
The problem? How to begin. It’s that thing with the blank canvas — where do you throw the first splash of paint? I’m writing on a blank sheet. Dang. What are my first words?
