I'd kinda planned to go to a munch today. A different one, a TNG ("the next generation", i.e., under 35, and you would not believe the amount of asinine "but you're discriminating" whinery this produces on the mailing lists, christ) munch, so at least it would be young social misfits this time. And who knows? Maybe there would be someone cool there, maybe there'd be sparks, I could get some play or even something really more.
But my head is stuffed with cottony fluff, so I forgot and I climbed a mountain instead. (Well, Cougar Mountain. But I did it the hard way, from the lowest trailhead to the highest peak, so it wasn't that wussy.) I started down in overcast fog and hiked up into blazing sunlight, crossing fields of ferns and blackberry and nettles into a forest of hundred-foot firs. There was no snow but it was nippy, and I had the trail to myself for hours. Red-tufted woodpeckers hammered on snags by the trail, and high overhead, bald eagles soared in vast, lazy circles.
I don't know if I can tie this back to sex. There's probably some sort of forced metaphor, maybe something about the way my legs hurt but it's a good hurt, endorphins, whatever, I didn't have sex with Cougar Mountain. (I did several times have sex on Cougar Mountain, but not today.) I don't think that's the point.
I think the point is that there are a lot of ways to love and punish my body, to feel the world with all my skin, and being a pervert is no excuse to forget the other ones.
I'm a pervert, and today I stood on top of a mountain. I could see all the way to the ocean.