He woke up one morning with the idea that premarital sex was indeed wrong. What would his life have been if getting a woman into his bed also included signing an oath in front of clergy and family that he was committed to just one woman?
The idea was outrageous, but he did feel guilt, on this particular morning, when he realized that premarital sex was the only type of sex he had ever had. So, the startling conclusion awoke with him that morning which prompted obvious questions. If premarital sex had not been so easy if condemns and birth control had not been so readily available what would committed sex have been like?
He wasn’t a moralist but if a sane man couldn’t think of another reality what was the world coming to?
So, he stretched deep and felt his muscles tense and then release. He concentrated on the thick, cool sheet that draped neatly about him and encased his king-sized bed then thought of the different lovers he had known. There was one who would want to curl up next to him and talk until they both fell asleep. Another who insisted on watching him fall asleep and yet another who curled up by herself and didn’t want to be touched which made his heart hurt even to think of it all these years after. There were those who were loud and those who even cried and one or two who had the sexiest moan he had ever heard. Each had their own diabolic quality.
Each had their own diabolical fault as well. A clinging lover was simply too much. By the very nature of the act, you had to put some distance between yourself and your lover for at least a few minutes. Wanting to fall asleep in a quasi-pool of love wasn’t something he was willing to face night after night. He also didn’t want someone watching him sleep. He felt that she was gloating over him, that she somehow felt smug after another strong climax. It was creepy. Then there was the one who curled up by herself. She looked so small and helpless over there on the other side of his large bed. He couldn’t remember falling asleep that night, and with a pang, he remembered that she wasn’t there the next morning. His one and only one-night stand.
All the rest hung around for a month or two. There was one who lasted a year. They had met at a New Year’s Eve party and parted at the very next New Year’s Eve party.
He sat up suddenly with an idea. Committed sex would be like reading the same good book over and over. He had read a few novels but had never read one over and over. It would be like reading one of the great novels of Sir Walter Scott. Think of the discoveries; the lines he’d read over, the nuance of sound and cadence that escaped him with the first reading. It would be like knowing what to expect and discovering he had read over or misread something for years.
Yes, he was going to reread a novel, that was a start.
“What are you thinking about?”
She walked in with nothing but his shirt on and a copy of East of Eden in her hand. He realized that his idea had come from his latest partner in “this is getting too easy.” She was a lit student and had the strongest thighs he could remember on a woman.
“Is that novel any good, would you read it twice?”
“I never do anything twice.” Her smile was diabolical.