A man I once knew (Biblically) who had a penchant for obscure literary texts he’d read to me by the light of a Zippo, said in a more revelatory moment that a ravishing chapter should be followed by a Cuban and a glass of Woodbridge Merlot. “It’s hardly writing if you don’t smoke and sip,” he whispered after Thomas Pynchon had tied our brains in knots and our legs in a fleshy pretzel. He fancied himself a literary dirigible, up and away.
But like any good bursting physical affair, you sometimes drain the horned beast. There’s lack and lassitude, the whole mess being nothing more than a persistent motion. Why follow through? Why climax at all?— Just run for the cigar and the bottle.
Like most men, I got tired of Pynchon. And Chesterton. And the Bible. Like most men, I got tired of sex. I suppose there are moments when I would do away with the rigamarole and just have an orgasm. No decanting. No foreplay. No teasing the tip with a flame. No tenderness. Just the arousal of Mother Nature and be done with it. More like Cummings than like Poe.
But then, I was never good at savoring a glass between pillow talk and dreams. Smoke, for that matter, irritates my eyes.