A eunuch is on the gravel. Ceramic stalls on one side, clotheshorses on the other. The Eunuch sucks on a honey-lathered Filbert paintbrush. Aristocrats pass on his lefts and rights, mulling over chiffon ball gowns and Armani waistcoats. Softly, he mumbles into the backs of aristocratic knees, the kind made from freeze-dried couscous, “You asked me to stay, but I have a few reasons to leave.”
The sound is different. I like it.
Do you think life would be easier as a eunuch?
Life is probably more or less the same whether you’re having sex, wishing you were having sex, or angry that you aren’t – or can’t – have sex.
The way you approach life changes, sure, but life itself is probably the same.
Well, you got me to google eunuch.