I wrote a little story, then had these thoughts:
I had a mission to have sex. To know what it was and how it worked. It fit my personality, or set of drives, or whatever you want to call the thing that turns over like the motor in a car when you see a certain mouth or a sleeve rolled up. I wanted to have sex the way men had sex. Those were not the words in my head. Sex as something separate from love or even fondness. I did not know how to do this, and practice did not teach me. On rare occasions I could have sex apart from falling into a kind of love that moved out of my body into touch. I wanted this kind of touch in return and a melting look in the eyes. Often I thought it was there because the sex was good. Men could see I liked the kind of animal they were. When I look back at this aspect of my life, it strikes me as funny, although when I was younger I suffered and caused suffering because I did not know how to have sex apart from the theater of love. It strikes me as funny because I wanted everything all the time and at the same time, and that kind of wanting is the gear that turns comedy.