I'm entertaining the idea of writing a book. a liquid, lonely, lazy book about sex. No sensationalism or even real prurient interest. It will deal mostly in mixed signals and apathy. I want to encapsulate the heads knocked together and the weird thoughts you have while fucking. I'll have to invent some complete whore and write it all "Jilting of Granny Weatherall" where the main character keeps obsessing about how both protagonist and antagonist have similar textures of hair and worrying about how she smells.
I think I'd like to be a girl. I don't want to get silly and write about thinking she's fat, although that would be masterfully implied, all that body image shit...Wait: I'll be a black woman. self conscious of her very chocolate skin and tight curls. Fucking white guys, or some Asian dude who really does have a small penis-no-a black man hung like a duck. Hell yeah and some Asian John Holmes. Dabbling in lesbianism without any real passion. Constantly doubting herself for her lack of lust: aping and faking it. Promiscuous in the manner of some gay farm kid with a giant hat and a red Chevy 2500 with a plow. I'll start it like this:
"I always hate this part. Not the fucking, that's fine, pleasant enough once you kind of get into it; once you get past the undressing and the surreptitious sliding of a sensual (you hope) hand over your ass to check for zits; once you conquer the cramp from clamping down on the gas from the beer that brought you to his silly room with another floor lamp that looks like a windswept umbrella; once you've successfully hidden your mild disappointment at his love handles or his greasy thatch of pubic hair; once you've bound your contempt for his breath and his beard; after those fall you're fine. I hate the wait. The polite space where you're sure he's asleep and the ticks of the clock are your bed's siren song. You're more alone that you were shaving legs 7 hours ago and mostly let down.
Oh, he fucked you fine and he's handsome in his shy way but you settled again for some approximation of desire. You didn't want the sex, you wanted the company and you traded for what he wanted and the company was fine while it lasted but you don't want it again. It's the breadth of an hour that finds you merely responded. You don't want what you wanted and you don't really care if this happens again unless he suddenly turns interesting and stops talking about the last book he apparently just barely nicked."
Or something like that.