Sex, Endings, and NSFW Second-Hand Dresses 12

This week, I talk a little about my opinions of sex and death as a way of introducing the first chapter that crosses my NSFW threshold.


The United States has some interesting views when it comes to sex. Publicly, it is something we uncomfortably talk about among wider audiences. It is the source of jokes in movies and when the Sex Ed teacher trying to explain things with a straight face. The news stations mocked all the fans reading Fifty Shades of Gray when it came out, calling it “mommy porn” and relishing when hundreds were sold back after read in private.

One comedian said “sex is a dirty, disgusting things you do with the ones you love.”

The thing is, sex isn't a terrible thing. If given a choice between procreation and destruction, I'd take sex over guns any day. The idea that our country glorifies slaughter and violence in our games and movies, but cringe at even the thought of a nipple or a penis is distressing.

I'd rather read about two people making out than another battle with blood and guts flying (though I do enjoy those also).


It also comes down to the ending. With sex, everyone has a chance to enjoy some fun and they feel good coming out of it. It is playful, and sweaty, and generally healthy. More importantly, they come back to do it again.

Death is the opposite of that. Someone dies, that is it. One person gets a rush of killing and a life is extinguished for that temporary rush. This is something I've thought about for a while, I even wrote about the loss of death in Sand and Bone 8:

The little girl's confessions echoed in Rutejìmo's head in a quiet symphony as he wrote in his book. The hand-bound collections of pages creaked under his hand, the leather thong strained to hold the almost fifty pages of tightly-spaced writing. Over the years, he had added a dozen pages to the collection. It wouldn't be too long before the binding couldn't handle the additional pages, but he thought he had a few more years left before that happened.

Even with his additional pages, he didn't have room to write down any of the stories he had heard over the years. He wanted to detail the joys of the little girl's death, such as the choked story about how she had stolen her brother's toy when he wasn't looking. He had also wanted to write the horrors, like one man's confession for killing his sister. Each one was precious and important. Time would erase their stories and a part of Rutejìmo died every time he forgot one.

He could barely see the page underneath his hand. The dim light of the coming dawn provided only enough illumination to identify that he was writing on the page and his lettering didn't overlap with the line above it. One single line to condense a little girl's life to a simple phrase wasn't enough. After the name of her clan and how she died, there wasn't much left to describe her.

Rutejìmo wanted to write more. Years ago, he tried to, but there were simply too many stories to document. He ran out of paper and time long before the tales ran out.

With death, stories end. All the beauty in someone's life is snuffed out and the memories are lost. My dad and I talked about the same thing recently, of our decades of thoughts, memories, and experiences that will be lost when we die. There is nothing to save those stories, no way of keeping them around, but they are still precious to me.

(Related, I don't believe in “too much information” because even the most mundane story has a beauty of its own.)

This is important with the events that happened not only in Charlottesville, VA but also other places. There are assholes out there who post how happy they are someone died. I've read the same intent from comments from Palestine or Israel talking about each other, of the Black Lives Matter accounts about yet another death, from a hundred different people talking about their bigotries.

It saddens me that someone wants to end that beauty. Any beauty for that matter.

Not Safe For Work (NSFW)

So related to all that, this is the first chapter of the novel where things hit a threshold that I feel the need to warn readers about it. It isn't that graphic, just a bit of dry humping and adultery, but it is those few steps too far.

Second-Hand Dresses 12: One More Time

Lily comes home to late to find Hasan waiting for her. He confesses his desire for her and she is helpless to say no as he pressed up against her.

Read the chapter at


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