//Sex is something you do not something you watch.//

Speak for yourself, John Harvey Kellogg. I derive a lot of pleasure from watching sex and there isn't a reputable medical body in the world who'll tell you that's a bad thing.

//Having an interest in someone else's genitals is the stuff of voyeurism unless you are going to come into contact with those genitals.//

Yeah, you say that like it's a bad thing... what's going to happen to me if I watch too much sex? Blindness? Imbecility? Moral degeneration? Blisters on the palm of the hand (giggity)?

//Sex, sexuality is the basis of all human relations, and so people are and always have been obsessed/fascinated/curious about it, whether it's portrayed through stories of the gods and goddesses, or Hamlet, or real-life TV news and current affairs. It doesn't make any difference whether it's fictional or real, humans are fascinated.//

It certainly makes for great fiction:

"Your kiss is honey and your touch scorches like fire, and I worship it." His words are becoming more rhythmic now, keeping pace with the thrust and roll of their bodies. "Bring me your lust in the morning, and bring me relief and your blessing in the evening. Let me walk in dark places unharmed and let me come to you once more and sleep beside you and make love with you again. I worship you with everything that is within me, and everything inside my mind, with everywhere I've been and my dreams and my-- he breaks odd, panting for breath. "What are you doing? That feels amazing. So amazing" - and he looks down at his hips, at the place where the two of them conjoin, but her forefinger touches his chin and pushes his head back, so he is looking only at her face and at the ceiling once again.

"Keep talking, honey," she says. "Don't stop. Doesn't it feel good?"

"It feels better than anything has ever felt," he tells her, meaning it as he says it. "Your eyes are stars, burning in the, shìt, the firmament, and your lips...

...are gentle waves that lick the sand, and I worship them," and now he's thrusting deeper and deeper insider her: he feels electric, as if his whole lower body has become sexually charged: priapic, engorged, blissful. 

"Bring me your gift," he mutters, no longer knowing what he is saying, "your one true gift, and make me always this-always so-I pray" 

And then the pleasure crests into orgasm, blasting his mind into void, his head and self and entire being a perfect blank as he thrusts deeper into her and deeper still... 

Eyes closed, spasming, he luxuriates in the moment; and then he feels a lurch, and it seems to him that he is hanging, head down, although the pleasure continues. 

He opens his eyes. 

He thinks, grasping for thought and reason again, of birth, and wonders, without fear, in a moment of perfect postcoital clarity, whether what he sees is some kind of illusion. 

This is what he sees: 

He is insider her to the chest, and as he stares at this in disbelief and wonder she rests both hands upon his shoulders and puts gentle pressure on his body. 

He slipslides further inside her. 

"How are you doing this to me?" he asks, or he thinks he asks, but perhaps it is only in his head. 

"You're doing it, honey," she whispers. He feels the lips of her vulva tight around his upper chest and back, constricting and enveloping him. He wonders what this would look like to somebody watching them. He wonders why he is not scared. And then he knows. 

"I worship you with my body," he whispers, as she pushes him insider her. Her labia pull slickly across his face, and his eyes slip into darkness. 

She stretches on the bed, like a huge cat, and then she yawns. "Yes," she says. "You do." 

The Nokia phone plays a high, electrical transposition of the "Ode to Joy." She picks it up, and thumbs a key, and puts the telephone to her ear. 

Her belly is flat, her labia is small and closed...

...A sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead and on her upper lip. 

"Yeah?" she says. And then she says, "No, honey, he's not here. He's gone away." 

She turns the telephone off before she flops out on the bed in the dark red room, then she stretches once more, and she closes her eyes, and she sleeps."

- Excerpt from 'American Gods' by Neil Gaiman (PBUH)

//Your presupposition is that because people are fascinated in something that it must be a reasonable thing to be fascinated with.//

Your presupposition is that because you are not fascinated in something that it must be an unreasonable thing to be fascinated with.

//Foxy:
But you are not interested in everything. No one is interested in everything.//

Here endeth the discussion. The phantoic oracle has spoken, and it never errs from the truth.

//And personally I've always been much more interested in sex than my lungs or skeleton. Like most people?//

Nah, that's weird mate. I mean don't get me wrong, I like pornhub as much as the next bloke. But it's not what you'd call fascinating: there is little in the world of porn that is novel, and almost naught that stimulates one's intellectual curiosity beyond the level of 'how did they achieve that effect?' which applies to all film.

Gray's Anatomy (the classic text not the shite TV program) is way more interesting than sex. I believe that you are conflating 'interesting' with 'entertaining'.

//But you did not say why you wanted to know more.//

Well I can't read minds the way you can phanto... but I'd hazard a guess at curiosity. It's an affliction that affects some people, but probably something you've never had to worry about.

//For example are all people fascinated by pedophilia?//

Well I certainly am. It's the same sort of fascination one has with Nazis and Aztec human sacrifice and Ed Gein. What makes these people so sick and twisted? In the case of the Nazis and the Aztecs, how does that sort of perversion become normalised and acceptable?