The story of my life is mostly of a journey from penile dementia to senile dementia. Which is a pity, really, since I don't like writing about sex.
It's not just the gloopy bits I don't like describing, although as I get older and more fastidious that has become an issue. Hm. Issue's not exactly the right word in this context, is it. Shades of D H Lawrence and loins and all that. Just what I'm trying to avoid in fact.
No, the bit I'm not comfortable with is the mechanical side of sex. You know. Ten minutes earlier you laboriously hauled yourself on top and now your knees hurt and you've burned your elbows on the sheets. Being a gentleman you're trying not to fart out loud in case it destroys the romance of the occasion, even though it's hard to concentrate because you're feeling distinctly peckish and trying vainly to remember what's for dinner.
Meanwhile, as you grind away, the sweat dripping from your brow, your wife (or somebody's wife anyway) lies below you, staring eyelessly upwards, her face wreathed in a rictus smile like weathered concrete, snoring gently.
Maybe it's me. But I just can't write about such a scene as if it's the equivalent to being transported to Heaven while listening to Beethoven's Fifth. For me it's more Barry Manilow after a Chinese meal. Him being the one who's had the meal.
I guess I'll just have to draw a discreet veil over my sex life then, much like the Victorians did covering up the legs of their pianos.
Fuck knows what that's going to leave me to write about though. Not that you care. It's not your problem, is it.