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How do we make a feast of our lives?

I unequivocally believe we should. I am not interested in debating the whether. Instead, indulge me in the how. Rather, indulge with me.

Pleasure is, in unequal parts and shares, always co-created. This would be true even if I were the last person on earth. This is not the same thing as saying that pleasure is always, or ever has to be, co-enacted. We are here together, in a world where we have learned our pleasure in ways that have been blissful, painful, playful, traumatic. And so, what sounds good doesn't always feel good. And, what feels good doesn't always sound good. Polished. Polite. Prudent. Yet, what might a shameless expression of our pleasure, no matter how gnarled or smooth, offer us?

These stories are play. Turbulent, sinewy, facetious, sticky, imaginative play. Curiosity in the embers of a teasing desire. A desire always renewed before the fire's last breath. This is not about eternal rapture, but about the eternity of the moment before it.

I'll imagine you're watching. Indulging me in this co-creation. Your eyes caressing the curves of every letter of every word I've pressed myself into. You'll read and I'll write. Somewhere in that juncture, you'll undo the buttons of my thoughts. Do them up again. Slowly, deliberately, your own way. And new desires will be born. A traveling, tangential feast, we will eat forever.

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