Valiant to the end

A used condom. That's what I saw. That's what sparked this post. 

I was hiking around a place called the Rock Maze not far from where I live. It's a place for fun and games and illicit activities such as recreational drug use. And, apparently, sex in the dirt. Oh, and it's a rock maze.

I walked around a cliff face and saw a used condom in the dirt. It's nothing I hadn't seen before but didn't expect to see the evidence of someone's fun at that particular moment. As I shook my head and walked away, I thought of how my idea of sex has changed in the last few years. It used to be so common, so throw-away. Like that errant condom.

It's strange how something that used to be so common can now seem so precious. When I think of sex, I think of one woman. And I can't even think of having sex with her in the dirt and leaving the condom behind. Really, I just want to hold her hand.

Let's face it. Sex can be anything we want it to be. As long as two (or more?) agree, there are no limitations. It can be mind-blowingly spiritual and uplifting. It can be dirty and degrading. It can be anywhere in between. Or it can be just fucking, a physical need being met. One person can enjoy it, or both. Or neither. Sometimes the heart is involved, and sometimes it is not. Sometimes that heart is thinking of someone else while plowing into their partner. It's as varied as the human experience.

When I think sex now, it's not about any of those things. I realize my thinking is completely unrealistic. And pathetic. And hopeless. But regardless. I think of her walking beside me. While others are having dirty sex in the dirt, I just want to hold her hand. I want to walk with her into the best years of our lives. I want her near me. I want to hear her thoughts and feelings. I just want that. 

It's such a milquetoast thing to say. But the act of holding her hand or having her near would be better than any time I've had sex. My whole being aches for her, not just what's below the belt. Let's face it. That apparatus has seen better days. But my mind is good and my heart is pure, and my soul still functions. And they all cry out for her. Our common flesh — our hands, our eyes, our lips — meeting would be more precious than a thousand sexual encounters with someone else. 

I know all of this sounds like madness. I shake my head sometimes as I write it, but it's all true. It's how I feel. If anyone else wrote it, I would call "bullshit." My heart keeps writing love letters it never sends. They're backed up to the rafters, spilled out into the streets, being read by every passerby. My heart is on display, beating and bleeding and valiant to the end. No one reading this blog will ever question for whom my heart beats. But if they need a clue, it starts with a C and ends with a y.