He awoke one morning with the idea that premarital sex was wrong.  What would his life been like if getting a woman into his bed included signing an oath committing himself to just one woman and doing so in front of clergy and family?

The idea was outrageous; commitment, solemn oaths were societal dictates that had no room in this post religious age.  Nobody in their right mind did that thing anymore.  But guilt pervaded his conscious one particular morning when realizing that premarital sex was the only type of sex he had ever had.  So, the startling question awoke within him; if premarital sex had not been so easy, if condemns and birth control had not been so readily available what would committed sex have been like?

He wasn’t a moralist, but if a sane man couldn’t think of another reality, what was the world coming to?

So, stretching deep and feeling his muscles tense and then release, he thought of the different lovers he had known with the idea he would bring each to mind without overt emotion.  He wasn’t a cruel man by nature, but he was intelligent and feelings were detrimental to reason, in his opinion.

There was one woman who wanted to curl up next to him and talk until they both fell asleep.  At first the idea was comforting, like being read a bed-time story, but after about a year he realized he was dreading sex because of the conversation afterwards.  Words like future and phrases like ‘my mother,’ and ‘your dad,’ slipped so easily between her lips.  He imagined that his apartment was full of grungy kid’s toys and the looming responsibility of college tuition was bearing down upon him.  No, he had had enough, and they had drifted apart.  There was the other who insisted on watching him fall asleep and yet another who wanted to eat in bed and watch television – that happened once.

Yes, there was another and despite his idea of remaining devoid of emotion, his heart tugged at him and he squirmed around in his big, cool, comfortable bed uncomfortably.  She (what was her name, damn) curled up by herself and didn’t want anything to do with the afterglow.  The whole object of the deed was the touch, so he was a little miffed at her attitude at first.  There were those who were loud and those who even cried and one or two who had the sexiest moan he had ever heard. Each had their own quality, even the one who wanted to eat in bed, but only one acted wounded. 

The idea of sleeping with a virgin made his head spin, but the sheets didn’t reveal anything of that nature and he remembered falling asleep relived if not a little miffed at being frightened.  She got up the next morning unbeknownst to him and slipped out of his apartment.  He looked about, wondering if she stole anything.  She had not.  He felt odd, puzzled for an entire day, and then thought little about it.  He never saw her again.

Sitting up in bed after contemplating his various lovers he sighed and mentally conceded that each had their good qualities but each had their own diabolical fault.   A clinging lover was too much.  By the nature of the act, you had to put some distance between yourself and your lover for at least a few minutes.  Wanting to fall asleep in a quasi-pool of love wasn’t something he looked forward to night after night.  Besides, it was exhausting.  A man had to sleep.

Outside of the girl who would not allow him to touch her afterward, he never had a one-night stand; all the rest hung around for a month or two.  There was one who lasted a year.  They had met at a New Year’s Eve party and parted at the very next New Year’s Eve party – it got noisy, but the whole block was noisy on New Year’s Eve.

He had an idea.  Committed sex may be like reading the same excellent book over and over.  He had read a few novels but had never read one over.    He imagined his adolescent years reading the great novels of Sir Walter Scott.   What would those novels reveal to him now?  Reading again a novel that spoke to him twenty-five years ago would speak to him differently in the here and now; it’s reasonable to think so. The discoveries, the lines and the language that a 13-year-old boy read through quickly to obtain the ending may be enjoyable now. Yes, enjoyable and perhaps even comforting due to the familiarity.

Yes, he would reread a novel, one he loved from boyhood, that was a start to contemplating committed sex. But he would tell no one, especially a woman, because any woman would be smug about his idea and wonder what took him so long to come to it.  He would try it first and make sure that familiarity was an enjoyable experience.

“What are you thinking about?”  She walked in with nothing but his shirt on and a copy of East of Eden in her hand.  He realized that his idea had come from his latest partner.  She was a student of literature, a few years younger than him, and had the strongest thighs he could remember on a woman.

“Is that novel any good, would you read it twice?” he asked eagerly.

“I do nothing twice.”  Her smile seemed a little canine.