Sex is a choice

I haven’t written a post for over two years. So, I should probably say a word or two about what I’ve been up to—and I probably would have done so, if the circumstances were slightly different. But I won’t do that. I’ll just say this, though, by way of explanation: I write, because I must. I wrote the previous posts because I had to. I didn’t write any more because I no longer felt the necessity. Now, I write because I feel it again. So, I shall start abruptly—as abruptly as that feeling overtook me.

Sex is a choice. In a sense, this is obvious. I have sex at a certain place, at a certain time, with a certain person. I could’ve had it at a different place, at a different time, with a different person. But I didn’t. That’s why it’s a choice.

But, in another sense, it’s a choice and not a choice. Sure, it has a time and a place that I can identify it by. I wasn’t anywhere else, anywhen else, doing anything else. So, even if I don’t have a clear recollection of it, I can still infer that I chose to do it then and there. But if I need to ‘infer’ it in the first place, then it’s not a choice. It was just another fuck. A number. I can ‘infer’ that it was with a particular person. Maybe I even remember her name. But does that make a difference?

No.

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