stories in my head, part six

You can’t remember sex. You can remember the fact of it, and recall the setting, and even the details, but the sex of the sex cannot be remembered, the substantive truth of it, it is by nature self-erasing, you can remember its anatomy and be left with a judgment as to the degree of your liking of it, but whatever it is as a splurge of being, as a loss, as a charge of the conviction of love stopping your heart like your execution, there is no memory of it in the brain, only the deduction that it happened and that time passed, leaving you with a silhouette that you want to fill in again. (E.L. Doctorow)

PUBLIC BEDROOM

What made the cosmetic surgeon’s and the budding actress’ affair nonpareil was its currency with the use of instant computer propagation.

Spreading like wildfire, the rumor was soon validated by the crisp copies of the acts that made all of us privy to the architectural configuration of the couple’s bedroom.

Familiarity with the bed, the furniture, the crumpled bedding and their color, the texture of the light, what looks like a closet’s door ajar enabling a concealed camera its concentrated dedication, and of course the familiar mute fixture, the wall air-conditioning unit on the upper right side of the partition, brought us inside the skin of the dramatis personae. Not only were we taken within the inner sanctum, they allowed us to eavesdrop to their groans and passionate carnal conversations.