I replied that, "I find it easier to focus in on the momentariness of the moment when I'm washing dishes than when I'm having sex. I like having sex, of course. I like it a lot. But it's harder for me to flatten out the folds of time in that context than in others." Part of this has to do with the fact that I spend too much time in head, surely, but I'm confident that my confession doesn't mark me as a rare exception to the rule of nature.
I went on to state my conviction that the ideal of "just sex" is, "first and foremost an expression of our desire to free ourselves from the bunched up fabric of time. The drugs people take as a prelude to having sex, the schemes they come up with to keep it anonymous and detached, the words they deploy as prelude and coda -- all those supplements serve, paradoxically, to strengthen the barrier keeping the narrow present of bliss-to-be, bliss, and bliss-just-had safe from contamination by thoughts of a more distant time, whether forward or back."
I went on to add that the use of these supplements is not necessarily a bad thing. People smoke pot, put on fetish wear, and talk dirty for a reason, after all: these supplements have the potential to enhance their delight. But it's important to recognize, I concluded, that this delight is, "shadowed by oblivion or, more precisely, is a delight in oblivion, which, coming full circle, turns out to be cut from the same anti-matter cloth as the moment the ideal of 'just sex' aspires to wrest from the complicit complexities of chronology." Now is the time for sex because now is the time of oblivion.