Who doesn't love it when Andrew Sullivan gets all oversharey? One minute he's neck-deep in a theological discussion of morality and Darwinism, the next he's remembering a blissful twelve-hour fuck session.
The lovable-despite-a-career-of-publishing-unforgivably-wrong-things editor-cum-blogger notes a recent study on the effects of love on the brain versus sex. But his own two-person focus group came to a different conclusion:
I recall one marathon twelve-hour session of passion many years ago now. It was only afterwards that I realized I had barely had a single trace of an analytic thought for the longest period I could then remember. I was never happier. As I finally collapsed into my lover's arms with the final orgasm that drained every last drop of desire or need from my body and soul, I understood for the first time why the French call coming "le petit mort".
Yes. Well. Sullivan just recently went back home to DC after his usual summer in Provincetown, and his adorable dog is getting very old. So maybe he is a bit distracted or depressed right now! But still, we have to ask: twelve hours? Didn't you get... sleepy? Would we be out of line to wonder if perhaps certain questionably legal substances were involved? Possibly a stimulant known to cause alertness, euphoria, and increased sexual appetite for up to 12 hours?
Now that he's admitted to fucking the oppressive "ordeal of consciousness" away, Andrew Sullivan is officially the Peaches of Pundits.