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Last Saturday, I had the offer to go for a three-way with a handsome, local irishman. Having little else pressing that morning, I decided to do so.

What I found myself in, aside from a drunken lout and an enormously well-endowed black gent, was a situation I felt, really, I had no business or desire to be in. It was like the cold, cruel reality of the act was a far-cry from the romantic indulgences so often associated with it.

I enjoyed myself, and when said Irishman fell asleep upon the bed, I cleaned myself up and made my exit.

As I paused at the door, I considered, unlocked as it was, how easy it would be for a perfect stranger to come into his well-appointed East End apartment and fleece him roundly. Being of a somewhat more moral character, I didn’t, of course. Although it would not be the first time I’ve heard of sexual magpies taking spoils back to their home-nests.

But it made me consider just how often we’re disappointed when it comes to our sex lives. Or I am, at least. When you think about it, what a sticky mess it all is. What a lot of silly effort for something which yields so little pleasure, when all is really said and done. What is it we’re all fighting for, when the red haze of lust descends? Panting like dogs in heat, we hop into bed with each other like bunnies, but for what? The thrill of the chase? The end result? The hope of finding love amid a city pumped and fuelled by selfish desires?

We’re all just horny rabbits in London, and the tube is our warren. We chase each other down it.

Are we just doing it to say we’ve done it? The idle sexual boast we can make in passing and feel the smug self satisfaction of acknowledging our base humanity.

In those terms, it all seems to ridiculous. Is the pleasure really all in the anticipation, or is there more?

Is it the chance to feel pleasure, or just the chance to just feel alive?

Our lives are defined by the immaterial in London. Most of us work in jobs where we can’t even reach out and touch what we’re doing. Everything is etherial. We define ourselves by jobs which we can’t complete, by money we don’t touch. Sometimes that we don’t even own. A series of invisible numbers define our lives. Perhaps sex is the one thing we cleave to as it’s one of the few things left which is real. Physical.

That is, until we turn our devices back on. Every fetish we could possibly want is in our pocket.

I hope when I meet the right person, all the tumblers simply fall into place. It’s just some days I doubt that is trie, or even possible. When we devour hopes and dreams and spin epics of the love which we hope will come into our lives, are we dreaming something real, or just anticipating?

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