
Working
here at the Nerve offices, I’ve found it’s completely natural to have sex on
the brain pretty much always. When you spend your day figuring out the perfect
words to parse the graphic, lovely photos from The Daily Siege, or mining the
Nerve archives for steamy personal essays from years past, and when you are a
sexually frustrated twenty-three year old, yes, you will spend much of your day
thinking about boning.
But
reading Betty
Ross’s essay, Nocturnal
Omissions, I felt a resonance different from the kind I get from reading
hot fiction about gay sex. Because I don’t explicitly remember most of the sex
I’ve had. I tend to chalk it up to having been drunk at the time...
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