I’m home sick with a cold, with more used tissues in a pile beside my bed than an adolescent boy.  My bedside table is covered in a tent of germs and books.  I’m reading (and highly recommend) He Comes Next by Ian Kerner.  Maybe The Suitor will read She Comes First, next.  I think both books are very informative, and at least for the moment, motivational in trying to liven things up with role-playing and spontaneity.   I was fascinated to learn there’s a name for multiple orgasms in men.  "Multiejaculation, in which a man experiences a series of partial ejaculations."  I thought the guy I dated back in college who did this was just a freak of nature.  This multiple-mess might sound lovely to men, the notion of it.  Multiple orgasms.  I assure you, it is not.  It’s annoying, like a street with a stop sign every two blocks.  Just as I was getting hot, he was getting off.  Then again.  And again.  It involved way more tissues than my cold.  I know women who swear by their vibrators, tell me they give themselves clitoral orgasms until tears come streaming down their faces.  So many, they say.  Intense.  I don’t believe them.  I don’t think they’re lying, but for me, it’s much more about the build up than the finish.  It’s intense and amazing when it takes longer, when I have to work for it.  It’s about squirming at the plateau and hoping I don’t climax yet; I don’t enjoy easy.  That’s why I love make-up sex.  Sweaty, passionate, hard.  Hair-pulling.

More importantly, or not, in my reading I learned about "Retrograde ejaculation, or injaculation," where a guy ejaculates inside his bladder instead of through his urethra, so he has an orgasm, but nothing comes out.  There’s no proof or tissues.  Apparently tantric sex books list it as their "money shot," the best tantric orgasm one can have.  I don’t believe the book gets into how one achieves this type of orgasm.  I’ll keep reading.

I’ve finished reading my own book and am now onto selecting the photographs that will appear in Straight Up & Dirty.  Black and white.  Vertical.  I can’t decide.  Each time I blow my nose, Linus comes running over in a buzz of feet and nails that need to be clipped.  It sounds like he’s wearing cleats. Click, click.  Click.  He’s certain he can steal away with my white purse of "nature’s candy."  "No, noodle, not for you, but while you’re here, which photo do you prefer?"  I’m losing it.

When I was younger and sick with a cold, my mother used to hold the tissue over my nose and tell me to "just blow."  You can’t do that!  I need to pinch one side, then the other, for anything productive.  "Give it to me," I might have said.  She did it wrong.  I don’t know if parents know to do this for their children, just as I didn’t really know you can’t "just blow."  There’s an entire pelvis going on that has been neglected!