everybody's afraid to talk about it? What's the matter with my body
that I dare not mention it? My body seems very beautiful to me. I like
to look at it. I like to feel it. I like to smell it. But I'm always
hurried into my clothes. My body is so mysteriously precious I must
take care of it. But how am I to take care of it if I don't get
acquainted with it?

I find that having a body has something to do with being a father and
a mother. I want to be a father. I want to be a mother. But how can
I be a father or mother if some one who knows doesn't tell me what
precedes fatherhood and motherhood? I should prepare for it. How can
I if all the books are closed? How can I if I am blanked every time I
express my curiosity? Is there no one anywhere who'll be honest with
me?

If I look at sex right out of my own soul, it seems like something
which God didn't fail with, but succeeded with. Like something not
polluted, but purified. Like something having everything, instead of
only an occasional thing, to do with life. But the world shakes its
head. The world is nasty. But it puts on airs. The world has eaten.
But the world says it's best to starve. Folks will say they've got to
be parents. But they say they will regret it. They say sex is here.
They say we're up against its mandates or its passions. But let's
be as decent as we can with the indecent. Let's not linger on its
margins. Let's not overstay our dissipation. Sex is like eating. Who
would eat if he didn't have to? To say you enjoy a meal is carnal. To
say that you derive some sense of ecstasy from paternal and maternal
desires is a confession of depravity. Sex at the best is a sin.

Sex at the best is like stepping down. That sex might be an ascent.