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The older Les Bloch gets, the more confounding sexual desire seems to get.
By Les Bloch
Okay, I'm going to say it. Sex. Three letters that conjure intense feelings, emotions and opinions from almost everyone who hears them.
Each generation is awkwardly presented with the script of human coupling, each parent starting anew with their version of The Talk, the one that explains where we come from and what to do with our private parts. The 'birds and the bees' continues to baffle us, even as we procreate and further the species, largely by accident and fumbling self-discovery. Movies, music and the artist's palette all provide versions as clear as the steamed windows of a bouncing pickup. Sex is loud and everywhere, but honest conversation is barely audible over the din.
The thing that is seldom discussed, in media or private, is the fact that sex and intimacy change and flow like the colors of a sunset sky. Sex at 17, 25, 50 or beyond -- if we're lucky enough to have it at all -- is not the same throughout our lifetimes. To some of us, sex is a large hunk of the pie chart, to others, barely a sliver. The ebb and flow of sex, as our bodies age and change, brings an appreciation for human contact that is finite, like the lives we share. Figuring out sex and its place in our lives, its importance or irrelevancy or occasional bliss, is a necessary tool in a long term relationship. The learning curve, as with so much of life, is steep and sometimes never attained.
We are all products of sexual union, and yet we never fully understand it at all. We may share ourselves with another human or we may not. A once furious firework may fizzle to darkness or unexpectedly spark again. What we do behind closed doors, or inside that bouncing pickup, might mean everything or nothing, and sometimes both if we live long enough to understand our own heavy breathing.
With a Perspective, I'm Les Bloch.
Les Bloch is a construction project manager.