mild rage to add to the general grumpiness.

CW: mild sexual talk.

Nothing like thinking you’ll have a really interesting chat with someone, talking about fun stuff like music and books and writing, and it turns into a two-hour conversation about sex.

Sex, sex, sex. I’m so over it. I’m over talking about it, I’m over seeing it on TV, I haven’t written about it explicitly in years, and I’m just BORED with it. Sure, it’s fun. Sure, it feels good. But do you know what else is fun and feels good? Eating Belgian chocolate. Relaxing with sweet coffee. Curling up beneath blankets on a chilly day with your favourite book. Listening to an album that sends you into the stratosphere. Having someone you love brush your hair. Good conversations about things you’re passionate about.

And you don’t even have to take your clothes off for any of those. (Unless you want to, I guess.)

It brings to mind when I was with my Rapist Ex, and that one time I was just…talking so excitedly about how good Bj√∂rk’s Volta album was, like…just joyous to be talking about beloved music with someone I (thought I) loved, and he cut me off mid-sentence after a series of nods to ask if he could kiss me. Ooh, you weren’t paying the slightest bit of attention to what I was saying? How incredibly sexy, let me at you. How every conversation with a man comes back to how I give him an erection. (So what? They can think about nothing at all and get erections; what’s the big deal, then? Am I supposed to feel special?)

I try very hard to be sex-positive, and honestly I am, but the subject bores me to utter death. It’s just fucking boring to talk about it, no pun intended.