Sex and death

Valya - 111012

Memento mori is a Latin phrase translated as "Remember your mortality", "Remember you must die" or "Remember you will die". It refers to a genre of artworks that vary widely but which all share the same purpose: to remind people of their mortality, an artistic theme dating back to antiquity. - Wikipedia
Maybe it is watching the dead leaves fall from the trees.  I am feeling the connections between life and death more and more.  I've written about the connection between sex and the universe, spirituality, and connection to the greater.  I also wrote briefly about the French term for orgasm, le petit mort, "the little death" or the "...spiritual release that comes with orgasm or to a short period of melancholy or transcendence as a result of the expenditure of the 'life force'" (Wikipedia, again)

I am now going to write about the connection I feel between sex and death.  It isn't that sex can kill or lead to death for me,  but more of an overall acceptance of both in my life.  Sex is a part of me as much as my heart, my eyes, my penis, and my soul.  It is part of me and I am part of it.  For me, sex is life and life is sex, but also a cousin to death. 

While some may argue that the opposite of life is death, death comes only from a life ending.  Life has no real meaning if we don't face death.  Sex is part of it all.  Sex creates life.  Life leads to death.  The circle seems a perverse threesome. 
Death is just a tad bit younger than life and it is one of the oldest organic conditions in our existence. Maybe by connecting sex to creating new life, the opposite of death, the orgasm gives us a taste of both in the blissful moment.- me
Sex makes me feel more alive than ever, especially during it.  Afterward though, during the post-glow quietness, I feel closer to my mortality.  It is an acceptance and a reminder that I am a little closer to it, at least one orgasm closer.  It is not a morose feeling, just an acknowledgement and acceptance of it being in my future.  Maybe that is why I feel closer to the universe during and after sex.  A small part of sex plays a role in the painting of my life.  It is the little skull in the corner acting as my momento mori.  It is me feeling alive and in some small way dieing just a little bit inside me.


  1. “It is part of me and I am part of it.”
    Sometimes you kinda startle me with thoughts that have rolled around in my head. If I look down on the sidewalk; will it be your shadow or mine? lol

    Recently I was wondering if we have a finite number of ejaculations like women do eggs. The reason for this thought is now as I age I have go to see Alice to enhance my participatory lower part so it can again unite with the cerebral top part to allow me my fun. Did I use up too many just filling tissues early on? When I was young erections came easily, almost too easy. Sometimes causing a young boy some embarrassment and I often wished for a slower response time. As my favorite singer Ray Wylie Hubbard says in a song – be careful what you wish for.

    It is true that the only thing we “have” to do in life is die. The most prevalent constant in my life has been sex. I became aware of different feelings in my penis around the third grade. It is the thing I think about the most. I read about it, I write about it, I look at pictures of it, I base a lot of my humor on it and I do it: alone or with a partner it makes little difference.

    One thing I do find as I think about what you wrote is that the feeling or sensory part of sex hasn’t changed as the Grim Reaper gets closer. I am still amazed that a woman will let me inside her body and have been lucky to have been invited between the legs of my lovely bride for 38 years now. I still marvel at the curve of her breast, when her nipple pops up in my mouth, her taste, her smell, at the textures as I explore inside her during foreplay, the way my hands fit her ass and the feel of the skin stretch on it as I pull her to me. The voyeur in me can still conjure up vivid erotic thoughts because of women I see or pictures I look at. Even though I have trouble rising to the occasion sometimes now; when that cosmic moment occurs, through my eyes, I couldn’t tell you a difference between age 22 or 62. All those little deaths I’ve experienced over the years feel and seem the same – good. I’ve never had a bad orgasm – some are just better than others. I have also finally learned that not having an orgasm doesn’t mean I didn’t have satisfying sex. Hopefully my death and the end of sex will be at about the same time.

    I enjoy Valya, very sensual. I almost wrote a short story about her very enticing 9-8-12 picture

    I also keep a skull. Mine is plastic, although I would like a real one – but they are too expensive, it sits in my office looking down at me as I type. I never thought of it in a sexual way though. Hmmmmmm….so many metaphors.

    D.L. Wood

    1. Thank you for this very personal response. As I get older, I appreciate the beauty of women, the sexy beauty. I notice the curve of line of their lips, the shine in their eyes, the smell of their hair. When I was a teen, all I could focus on was the friction of sex.

      Valya gave me special energies and power that both tells stories, feels natural, and imparts feeling. I feel these photos (even with out the little plastic skull) have a feeling of sex and death. I don't know why.

      I would be honored if you did write that poem about that photo of her.

  2. I've written also written on my blog about la petite mort, sex and death. I was first drawn to your blog because you recognize the power of the erotic and its connection to both the beginning and end of life as we know it. It is wonderful that you have found a model who shares your intuitions about sexuality and death. I love your work with Valya.

    1. Thank you for the kind words. Similar feelings attracted me to your blog as well. As for Valya, I was blessed.

  3. Yes the patina of experience on a woman has many merits.

    The wrinkles around her eyes tell of the many smiles she has given you. The little lines at the edge of those sweet lips might tell some tales. Of times being stretched as she accepted your wild thrusts of excitement with nostrils flared and spit running off her hand.

    The lowering of a once proud chest....well hell after all the times you have nuzzled against, twisted, bitten, mauled, pulled, pushed, and sucked hard on them; they should be down to her knees. When you run your palm across her no longer flat tummy and remember the struggle she had bringing the most beautiful daughter into the world.

    When you nuzzle and kiss your way once again across an ass that has a little more give in it; you remember. Remember it was one of the first things you loved about her. Well after the cute smile and that giggle. You might remember long ago on that snowy day during that hike in the woods and you were new to each other. She was in front and you kept making lewd remarks about her swaying ass how your dick was hard and how you would fuck her. She stops and so do you wondering why. She looks back over her shoulder and smiles as she starts to slide her pants down. When they reach just under her pussy. She bends over, reaches back and spreads her lips open. Then looking at you between her spread legs says - you talk too much. You drop to your knees and smash your now silent mouth against her as you grab each cheek. They are so hard and firm you can't get a good hold. So you stand to hold her hips as you drive the hard few strokes before bellowing like a bull moose. She giggles as she quickly pulls away from you. You shiver first from the cum, then from the fact your dripping hard-on is now standing out in the freezing cold. You hear her laughing and look up to watch as she runs up the trail while trying to pull her pants up at the same time.

    While we are in that region I will lastly mention those silvery hairs that I see as I tongue the essence of her arousal. I wonder if I added them all up if they would come close to the number of times she has satisfied me. I doubt it.

    Yes I like a bit of patina and I've ramble a bit too long; sorry.

    I don't do many poems, they're really difficult for me. Stories are a bit easier. I stole a copy of the image last night and will ponder it and see what it says to me.

    D.L. Wood

    1. I like a good patina too. Your stories work well. Thanks for sharing.


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