The same place we come from appears to be, at least for the majority of men, the same place we struggle all our lives to get back in. The opening in the flesh where everyone makes a start and which runs red occasionally as if to signal memories of a wound. We try very hard indeed. But the moment we are in we pull back out, yes, that is the thrill of it. And then, before anybody could know it, back in. So coarse, so sublime, so absurd, so stimulating.
Or of course it can be regarded inversely: that the female flesh taketh and it, what, releaseth. Either perspective, the sense is that this is abulia enacted, indecision in the flesh. Ancient genetic programming, alright but something entirely else too. And in the act, I feel, we are trying to somehow lose ourselves so that we are never finally faced with the decision: return or journey outwards. Which is anyway not a real possibility existing at the level of the flesh but only a vague vision in relation to those old base pairs: guanine-mother-cytosine adenine-father-thymine.