Tuesday, November 27, 2007
No where in our research has science intersected more clearly with art than in the fascinating case of Edgar Thomas. He writes:
My first pair of Nike shoes were the blue waffle trainers with the white undersoles and the yellow swoosh. My second grade math teacher's name was Mrs. Reese. She had gray, curly hair, lived with another woman "friend," and was a regular attendant at the annual Genessee County Renaissance Fair. The first tongue that ever came into contact with my own was that of Sarah R. I was in 7th grade; it was in her home, in her vestibule, at three in the afternoon. I remember it perfectly. I have total recall.
Every kiss, every fondle, every caress in my life I can still conjure up with the utmost clarity. It's as though there's an incorruptible hard drive in my brain capable of capturing every moment of my life, especially those sexual.
That first kiss with the lovely Ms. R was over twenty years ago. From then until the present I've slept with a fair share of women. And, when it comes to masturbation I have never had any need for magazines, DVD's, or the Internet. My memories of each of these glorious encounters is so perfect and intact, I merely have to close my eyes and the woman of my choosing appears at my side. And herein lies the difficulty.
As a man closer to forty than thirty, the age range of women both society and I find acceptable that I sleep with runs roughly from ages 21 to 45. However, many of my most cherished, vibrant conjugal memories are from my teenage years: elongated make-out sessions in the back of my '67 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. Hasty hand jobs in the woods across from the high school track. My first blow job in my parents shower when they were away at a wedding in Maryland. What then, I ask you, am I to do? Is it immoral for a man of my age to draw upon this material? Is there a statue of limitations? Is what is illegal in the flesh to also be abhorred in the mind?
I have no answers to these questions and wrestle with them daily.