Sex by Drowning

Sex is like a shower. When you first get in, it can be really hot. You can hardly stand it but the steam draws you in. Then it starts to get more comfortable and you can relax into it. You look and start to take in all the options, lotions and settings, and that playful eyebrow rises – this could be a lot of fun. Things go like this pretty much daily, though sometimes you may skip a day or two, no big deal – no public to impress. You may immerse yourself in it of an evening or a long weekend, or you may do it quickly in the morning or at noon, when there are pressing demands and children knocking on the door, just to die gloriously, naked and vulnerable in a world of interruption, for a moment of the day in that warm embrace, holding your breath, never wishing to rise for air.

It is just when the water runs cold that you never want to step into it again. You become hesitant, scared and betrayed by a once-trusted friend. No colorful toys, no floral scents, no exotic promises; the shower remains off. But the need remains. Then you have to make a decision: either you seek out another shower, or you brave the icy water, fumbling blindly for another spigot when you can hardly breathe or see straight. And you may be in luck: by some providence you find a way to take back control, to reinvigorate yourself, to wash again in a fountain of youth. Or your efforts may be in vain. You may stumble around, perhaps for years, trying to get that damn shower to work like it did once but becoming shriveled and shivering over a life like this, which is no life, but death by drowning.