Melancholic sex can be great sex.

Melancholic sex can be great sex.

I love melancholy. I love the word, the feeling, the aura. I love rainy mornings and cloudy days. 

There is something sublimely melancholic about sex. The look in a lover’s eyes but seeing a stranger, the grip around the waist, the digging into the back, the sounds, the silence. I love the silence. It is saddening and maddening. The silence is what reverberates after the screaming stops, if there is screaming in the first place. The silence is what plagues the mind, the insecurity, the thought for next time. What the fuck was that? What was he thinking? What was she doing? It is the unknown, the adventure of shadows on the wall. But melancholy is a softer hue, the dark side of sad that the sun doesn’t warm. It is cool, not crisp. Not quite cold, like a brisk night on the beach. Melancholy is the nuance of our existence while sex is the expression of our existence. Sitting on the Seine, with a glass of cheap Pinot, on a cloudy day pondering the what if’s, that’s melancholic. Being a romantic, a dreamer, someone who wishes for the best out of the world and out of people- that’s melancholic, and it’s always there, lingering, like a fading heartbeat, as the beast next to you snores into oblivion. 

Euphoric sex gets all the glory. All the jokes. All the aspiration. But every rock band has their version of Blackbird or Wild Horses that penetrates the soul. Mother’s don’t hold their babies with leather straps and a flogger, they caress them, nurture them close to her bosom. 

Sex, like marriage, with the wrong person is more lonely than being alone. Being single in a world that moves at hyper-speed is a journey into the depths of solitude. Jumping from one partner to another, one useless forced-smiled conversation to the next. We prefer this obligatory ritual over finding truth within ourselves all out of fear of loneliness. 

Go on a date. A hot spot. Drinks are good. Strong. Dinner was okay. Still hungry. Post dinner drinks. Stronger. Sex. eh, the bacon-wrapped dates were better. And here I am, staring up at the ceiling, pondering my choices in life. Wondering what my parents are doing. Wondering if my grandparents look down on me from heaven. I lay there regretting the choice of venue more than the sex because I can’t leave. Stuck. I have a gaze not a stare. Softer. The moonlight shudders in like a ghost. A smirk. 

Love is our escape of death, which is how to escape fear.

Love is our escape of death, which is how to escape fear.

Constellations of relationships.

Constellations of relationships.