The Invention of Sex
March 14 2024
A long epistolary relationship.
Like proper Victorians.
Back in a gentler age,
when life was slower
gratification deferred
manners genteel.
When mail was twice a day,
and they used calling cards
instead of phones.
A formal introduction,
and nothing so vulgar
as exchanging photographs.
Or more suggestive
than a bare ankle, come hither stare,
a whalebone corset
cinched tight around her waist.
When a man
showed off his prosperity
with a gold pocket watch,
generous paunch,
tall beaver hat.
Because in hats
size counts.
Who were we to know
about the porn and prostitutes.
The breathless affairs
of married ladies
and randy men.
The scullery maids, all alone in the world
who were banished to homes
where unwed mothers
hid their shame.
As if we invented sex.
As if the internet
changed anything
except for speed.
As if those incriminating letters
gathering dust
in some roll-top desk
don’t contain the same human desire
and animal lust
that have burned inside us forever.
Even if decorously disguised
in fine penmanship
and high-sounding words.
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