In the genre of sad erotica, people are tired and smell bad. They feel too fat or too thin, too old or too young or too middling. They touch their bodies like they handle a heap of laundry.
They're hungry but too tired from work to cook, and no one's there to cook for them. Oh, a bath would feel great but only after a drink or some weed and some food. Hot food.
They fall asleep in front of a screen and wake up bewildered and vacant. They drag themselves to the shower, and as the hot water turns some body parts red, they think about sex, the relief it sometimes brings, the oblivion of lust, the good feeling of being something or someone someone wants to touch.
In the genre of sad erotica, people get out of the shower and dry themselves off and put on cotton, linen, or wool. They walk slowly to bed and fall in the bed, exhaling like a beast. They go to sleep.