September 2009
In Manila, a storm.
Someone once told me monsoon weather was motel weather. I can see them in my head; the blanket-clad lovers laughing loudly, drowning out the rain. It wasn’t always a motel bed, sometimes it was their bed, their blanket, their house or room, or room in an apartment; and their love didn’t always have to be done in secret. They are husbands, wives, something like that. There is no easy...
If you can't bear my silence then you don't...
- Someone said somewhere.
Consider yourselves predators of pleasure.
Sex Without Love
Sharon Olds How do they do it, the ones who make love without love? Beautiful as dancers, Gliding over each other like ice-skaters over the ice, fingers hooked inside each other’s bodies, faces red as steak, wine, wet as the children at birth, whose mothers are going to give them away. How do they come to the come to the come to the God come to the still waters,...
