A few months ago, a friend mailed me a few books on writing. Over the weekend, I began Education of a Wandering Man by Louis L'Amour. Already from reading the first few pages, I know I'm going to enjoy this book.

Other than a vague knowledge he wrote Westerns, I know nothing of L'Amour. (Westerns aren't my thing.) The Introduction mentions he never wrote about sex: L'Amour considered it a "leisure activity" secondary to life and death and the necessities of everyday survival that he liked to write about.

That got me a-thinkin'. In the earlier days of this here blog, definite spikes to this site occurred whenever I made it the topic. Sex sells...

Writing about sex was scintillating -- This is a 'personal journal'; Read My Very! Personal! Confessions! Conversely, reading sexploits on other blogs brought with it a bit of voyeurism, porn and reality (and without the costs!).

And I wrote about sex because, hey, it's my blog and I can.

But after the initial oooh!, my interest withered (har har). I might disagree with L'Amour, but writing about sex by itself becomes nothing more than a laundry list. Without an anchor or a framework, it runs together or fades unmemorably. To the extent I write anything here to improve my writing skills, I have attempted to recognize that. (yeah, so?)

So, a sex update is in order!

In the past month or so, my body has shut down. No, not Erectile Dysfunction, just an underwhelming lack of desire.

Even so, I've had a personals ad posted looking for dates. And, since moving back to Dayton in January, I've met a couple of folks with it. I've met Dr. Freud and 911 Boy.

Dr. Freud is a newly-minted PhD in Psychotherapy. He is here between somewhere-elses to complete a clinical that he needs before he can obtain his license to practice. He's quiet and intense, and he talks like this: "I was having a pretty good day until someone challenged my observations in Group and that really hurt my feelings."

A couple of weeks ago, I met him at a downtown bar for drinks. I had an ulterior motive: Corner him for free sex advice!


Although the parking lot outside the place was nearly empty, I shuddered as I heard a voice cragging too close to a microphone.

Karoake Night. (Red Circle with Diagonal Slash through it.)

And there he was on stage, Dr. F wheedling something by Sting: You'll remember me, when the west wind blows, upon the field of barley... What a crap song; bring back The Police! God, did I need a drink.

After the dozen drunks half-heartedly clapped, Dr. F returned to the table and slouched over a cranberry juice. I told him about my 'problem'.

"Isn't that weird?" I asked.
"Is it? Maybe you need to take time for yourself. Not have sex for awhile."
"Yeah, that's what's happening alright," I laughed.

(I just saved myself $200!)

I mentioned it to 911 Boy, too. 911 Boy is hardly a boy but the name somehow works. He lived in Manhattan for most of his life, until...that day. Then he moved to the Southwest where he had a nervous breakdown. 911 Boy has been diagnosed with several syndromes and disorders and he talks like this: "It's a good thing I've spent the last two years studying my chakras or I'd be pissed at the doctor for totally forgetting to mention that Effexor fucks with your metabolism and blows your body up like a friggin doughnut."

911 Boy took a shine. For awhile we were instant messaging. He would type things like this:

I had a dream about you, am I supposed to tell you that?
Really?
You weren't wearing any clothes and I... (Let your imagination roam.)
I'm not available. I told you that.
That's what happens when you have compulsive behavior!

...and he sent me a link to here.

Yeah? So I checked it out. I read the "signs" and asked myself the twenty questions. They didn't fit -- or fit like in a way that I think it could fit anyone with a pulse. I typed that I didn't think it applied to me.

Denial is more than a river in Egypt!

When I was a kid, maybe even in elementary school, I remember seeing this movie, where a team of Scientists studied three or four monkey babies placed with non-living 'surrogate' monkey moms -- one made out of wood, one made out of metal, one with fur, and a real monkey mom. None of the monkey babies flourished as well as with the real thing and, if I remember right, the ones with the metal and wood moms turned out pretty bad.