As a little girl, I mostly thought about two things: what naked people might be doing to each other behind my back, and Jesus' crucifixion. I'd draw representations of both on paper plates. As I grew up, Jesus' death just sort of dropped out of my daydreams, but I've never gotten tired of thinking about naked-people possibilities, even after having acted out most of them. I don't know why. I've considered the question a lot though, and I've come to this conclusion: I'm not a pervert. It's normal and natural to, say, have sex in a dirty movie booth. Those other gross people swarming around your booth are the perverts -- not because it's perverted to be there, but because they slink. You can do just about anything and remain a decent, lovable person as long as you don't slink.
Some time ago, I got in the habit of emailing Genevieve at Hooksexup every Monday with my weekend exploits. I wrote in my diary too, but she was more fun because she'd write back. One day she asked me if I'd let Hooksexup run my sex diaries. I said, Sure! It always seemed like a waste to share the drama, tragedy, revelation and humor of sex with only a few dozen people in a lifetime. I've never bought that sex is a private concept. I figure if you need information, ideas, commiseration and perspective on anything, this is it. Plus, the ultimate definition of sex remains elusive no matter how deep we probe, so why not?
My Hooksexup diary kickes off as I try to break up with Lyle, a dreamy alcoholic. He's a good person but we're forever ending up in these stupid scenes where one of us threatens suicide. You'd think that would lead to passion, but no -- it leads to someone or other running away and sleeping somewhere else. So in the early pages, at least, sex is particularly elusive.
I complain about Lyle to Dave, who is polite and secretive, and Dave complains to me about Tor, his vacillant girlfriend (an Uma Thurman lookalike). I met Dave six months ago at a party, when I chased him around and told him I was pure evil and promised him that he would be mine. He managed to elude me that night, due to Tor and other bothersome realities, and we've since become friends. Dave is a really good-looking friend. I refuse to call Tor by her name; I refer to her as "Your Coy Girl"; he calls Lyle "Your Bottle of Beer." Welcome to my diary.
