Sex, as a short course in the mechanics of living, is under-whelming.
Sex is not — or it shouldn't be — the center of the universe.
Sex, however, is a primal focus, one informed by aeons of evolution.
Sex is an operational metaphor. It is the groaning, grasping and groping business we undertake with uncommon fervour and ardour.
Sex is positional, propositional, prostrate, polygamous, polyamorous potential.
Sex becomes an encompassing focus for the weak and easily-led. It is defining of one's self — as if who we are is a matter of weather or the local climate of a wet vagina or erect penis.
Sex is a goal. It has nothing to do with love. Rather having 'it' is about stature; it (having 'it') defines us — or so we would have it.
Sex has nothing to do with sexuality. It, sex, is about a contrived and clinicial form of masturbation. We think about the object (of 'our affection'), sublimate it then masturbate to the merry tune of our enlightenment.
Sex is a glossy magazine with disembodied vaginas and penises. All is engorged, ready ... and dead to the world.
Sex runs out of time when we allow it to. Age cannot stop the relentless ego of gratification.
Sex conquers even the best. The lust for fleeting permanence captures gonads everywhere.
Sex, after all, is simple. It is our aspiration seeking its fulfillment.
Too bad no one mentioned love.