Oh Betsy I cannot appreciate you for I cannot differentiate you.
I haven’t got a desire for you specifically.
I can’t manage to separate you from the rest of the hominin batch of goodies I cling to in the night, mainly for warmth.
You are there and so are a bunch of other floating things discombobulated and available for a moment and then gone. I doubt there is anything charming about the space between your legs or between your lips or in your wavering eyes…
My Serengeti! Your crotch, your lips, your eyes…These are intensities. They signal me, to be sure. I don’t like being signaled, though.
I have an erection in the same way I have to stretch my limbs to keep them limber.
I have an ejaculation in the same way I have an eructation or a fart.
It’s all the same release – ejaculation, eructation, fart.
None is more pleasurable than the other. It is all good and it is all imprinted on the nothingness of sky and dirt of the Serengeti…It is written. So it is written. I have confidence in that, as farfetched as that may be.
Oh Betsy was that your arm pit, your navel or your vagina into which I eructated, farted, ejaculated? I couldn’t say and neither could you.
We were both trembling flesh and when we looked into each other’s eyes we both blanched and both immediately forgot everything. You didn’t notice me chuckle and breathe and I didn’t notice you chortle and wheeze.
Certainly I am not repressed and neither are you. Nor are we a we or an anything.