Since the recollection of traumas and the labour of sexual gratification is all a mere roteness of drudgery act of the day, despite the pleasure principle of the faugue state it brings, my sexual pleasures aren't that special. It's nobodys business, as I've argued with with the sex work book.
Yet.
It's like I've been here before with my sexual expression, as if it's a think to become something to curate within a sexual perfectionism. Such kinkology could of become a trap to find a way down into monkey-see, monkey-do.
The moment one develops interests from it. Or not a vote for abstinence or something against porn. I don't want to be an entire idenity.So, this is a foundherent acknowledgment, of the completeness of the bad and good of my body's sexual expression with how that relates to the mental labor, with all that intwined into the mesh of the relation of our desires.
(Edit, called it sex work book. My bad. Apologies who misinterpreted. Bad direct response.)