"Why is it so hard for you to accept that your mother is a sexual being? Do you think you were immaculately conceived? I should think it would make you happy that your father and I were still fucking."
Yes. That's what she said. My mother is a sixty-three-year-old bestselling author with a Ph.D. in clinical psychology and Pamela Anderson's breasts, who talks about fucking her late husband like she's discussing current events.
Because when you get right down to it, sex is messy, gritty, and often grotesque business to behold: the hairs; the abraded, dimpled flesh; the wide-open orifices; the exposed, glistening organs. And the violence of the coupling itself, primitive and elemental, reminding us that we're all just dumb animals clinging to our spot of the food chain, eating, sleeping, and fucking as much as possible before something bigger comes along and devours us.