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Let’s talk about sex for a moment. No. That’s not holy enough. The word “sex” doesn’t do it justice. Let’s talk about fucking. Let’s talk about making love. Let’s talk about the transcendent union of bodies hell-bent on collision amidst a tempest of sweat and passion.
I hear so many people complain about their lackluster sex lives. The number of women who have expressed their disbelief that sex could be anything other than the utilitarian expression of selfish lust outnumbers the fingers on the hands of my entire extended family.
And the number of men I’ve heard speak with equal parts exasperation, defeat and genuine perplexity of the ways in which his woman expects him to read her mind is equally staggering.
In my years of loving, which have been interlaced with reading, writing and generally living a sickeningly romantic life, no single work has been more transformative in my view of the world — and in this case carnal love — than the work of Paulo Coelho.
Dusted throughout his volumes are love stories from his hand to the Soul of the World — that eternal soul from whence everything comes and to which everything will return. From it we are delivered the messages sent in hopes of showing us the way to our heart’s truest desires.
