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The room was all bunks: two walls of bunks with a gap between. The light was cool and artificial, but outside it was nearly noon. Could they be expecting him to sleep? But jet lag had never bothered Corbell. . .

The room was big, a thousand bunks big. Most of the bunks were full. A few occupants watched incuriously as the guard showed Corbell which bunk was his. It was the bottommost in a stack of six. Corbell had to drop to his knees and roll to get into it. The bedclothes were strange: silky and very smooth, even slippery-the only touch of luxury about the place. But there was no top sheet, nothing to cover him. He lay on his side, looking out at the dormitory from near floor level.

Now, finally, he could let himself think:

I'm alive.

Earlier it might have been a fatal distraction. He'd been holding it back:

I made it!

I'm alive!

And young! That wasn't even in the contract.

But, he thought reluctantly, because it would not stay buried, who is it that's alive? Some kind of composite? A criminal rehabilitated with the aid of some spare chemicals and an electric brainwashing device. . . ? No. Jaybee Corbell is alive and well, if a trifle confused.

Once he had had that rare ability: He could go to sleep anywhere, anytime. But sleep was very far from him now. He watched and tried to learn.

Three things were shocking about that place.

One was the smell. Apparently perfumes and deodorants had been another passing fad. Pierce had been overdue for a bath. So was the new, improved Corbell. Here the smell was rich.

The second was the loving bunks, four of them in a vertical stack, twice as wide as the singles and with thicker mattresses. The doubles were for loving, not sleeping. What shocked Corbell was that they were right out in the open, not hidden by so much as a gauze curtain.

The same was true of the toilets.

How can they live like this?

Corbell rubbed his nose and jumped-and cursed at himself for jumping. His own nose had been big and fleshy and somewhat shapeless. But the nose he now rubbed automatically when trying to think was small and narrow with a straight, sharp edge. He might very well get used to the smell and everything else before he got used to his own nose.

Eventually he slept.

http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y49/picturesref/kim_atta2.jpg

http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y49/picturesref/kim_atta3.jpg

http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y49/picturesref/kim_atta4.jpg

NEVER STOP DOING IT

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  [   ]
 an expression of a     joyful sexuality or a guilty sexuality?
lot of efforts still have to be made, to make possible a generalized joyful , jubilant sexuality because there is still
lot of guilt on that ground, lot of platitudes, of Judeo-Christianism, difficulties between 2 bodies getting close to each other to touch/
to express themselves/to produce something joyful, jubilatory,  that helps to explain  the popularity of sexologist, psychotherapists,high divorce rate, sexual miseries...
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  of course sexuality should just always be joyful , but we are the sum of our neuroses, pulsions, misfortunes, despairs etc
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but what is NEUROSES made
build by a civilisation and culture
that say the body ain't good; the soul is better
// instinct   [ # # ]passions   [  #  # ]pulsions  [  #   # ] are to be hated
women is sin   [ # #
pleasure is a shame   [ # #
gastronomy is a sin,   [  # #  fancying the neighbor's wife is a sin etc[  # #   =
that makes NEUROSES
20 centuries of this regime  made a considerable amount of NEUROSES
we inherit those NEUROSES
even when we think being above it, autonomous , independant of all that
... there is a certain format going on, the mind is molded / a fabric/ an education/ a social milieu/ an epoch/parenting/school/tv///
FORMAT BRAIN: /S often = sexualité malheureuse