More sex please. In fact, tear me apart.

I've been thinking I should write more about sex. Looked at longitudinally, there are only a few things I've spent really, truly a lot of time on in my life, and one of them is sex. Yet I've never really written about it. I was talking to a blogging friend the other day – not a blog friend, but a friend who blogs – and we nattered for a while about the tear (like a sheet) I sometimes feel between writing about things personal and writing about things general. On one level, everything I write is personal: there's no commissioning editor, here, to I pick the topics. So, I don't write about anything I don't care about. On the other hand, it doesn't take much reading here at Postcard Central to get clear that I'm usually blathering about either abstracted daily experience or specific current affairs. Very little of it is about me. I suppose that's a nice contrast with the incessant navel gazing of some personal vanity blogs. This here micrum opus, however, was always intended to be my writing jungle gym and, unless I plan on a career as a less-informed Thomas Friedman wannabe, I reckon some of my naked writing playtime orta be spent looking in the mirror. Besides, the corollary to the old advice to “write what you know” might should be “write what you fear”. I've spent most of my life running towards some of the things I fear most in order to see what they would teach me. ...while they kicked my ass. Or to try and conquer them. Usually, it's worked. It's how I ended up living in Australia, China and France. Each a long story, but with the recurring theme of running toward fear. Writing what I fear does not, at first blush, lead me to writing about me. But my comfort zone, judging by past outings, is clearly in the world of commentary, not in the land of self-disclosure. So, there's fear operating in there somewhere. Whether it's fear I'll reveal myself to be a total prat (or more of one than has been heretofore documented), or fear of rejection (same thing, I s'pose), or fear of something else, I don't know. Rather than considering that question in the abstract, however, I'm reckoning it'll be better thunk through in the breach: ie, if I start writing more personal stuff, and see what belly-flops my gut does when I hit the “publish” button. Which leads me back to sex, though not directly. When recently reading back over a bunch of old stuff, I was struck by the absence of sex. It was one of several topics of importance to me that came up virtually ignored. Whence the conclusion that I've not been doing too much self-disclosure. Or, at least, what of it I've been doing hain't been close enough to the bone. Sex sticks out simply because I've probably spent more time thinking about sex than about any other single topic, other than work, since I was thirteen years old. So, it just seems a bit odd that I would write about, say, Chinese sign translations, and not about sex. Either I'm afraid of what I'll say, or I'm afraid of what you'll think. As little as I like admitting it, it's probably the latter. Time to get over that, I reckon. So, consider yourself warned. Not that you're going to get reportage from the bedroom doings of White Boy and Flame-Haired Angel. No, no. I do that under a pseudonym over at ducksinlatex.com. * * * * * * * * * * An amusing post-script to all that. When re-reading, I came across my use of the word "tear" and, worrying only slightly about its nefarious homonymical tendencies, I flipped over to Google and typed in the first phrase that came to mind using the word tear: “tear me apart”. (I just know you're already reading into that what you will.) The very first search result was an erotic story: Tear Me Apart (Hint: Don't click the link if you're already worried about *me* writing about sex. Glad to see someone else is.)