To Be Vanilla: Part Two
There is no such thing as sex without connection. Anyone who makes any claim any differently
than this basic fact is cruel. They are
cruel because their lies do not merely reflect upon their own incompetence, but
because such untruth ends up damaging millions of youth who think sex comes at
no cost. Here am I bracketing, with utter
distinction, any mention of the possibility of Sexually Transmitted Infections
or pregnancy. I am referring instead,
although no more importantly, to the emotional toll wrought by sex had
meaninglessly.
You are waiting, in horny anticipation, for example, like
the quickening strum of an angry guitar, for that person to come over and
stroke your temptation. But once they’ve
got it in hand, and the loudest note has been played, the longest chord been
slowly strummed, you are left with mere remnants of intimacy. And one has intimacy like one tastes, sees,
knows, finds, feels. There is no forcing
such things. You cannot force love, nor
can you force the tingling sensation throughout neck and tongue of your
favorite, favorite food. You are left in
a stinging, somber, awkward avoidance, waiting instead for this strange interlocutor
to as quickly as he can get out from under the sheets (and preferably into out.
of. sight.). There is no situation like
this, which does not in some way end sans
regret.
Sex, had without a mutual acknowledgement and enjoyment of
connection, determined largely by its end—whether in a long lasting
(multi-layered) transgression or in the shortly-led satisfaction of an overly
differentiated need—is the epitome of longing.
It ends and begins in temptation—of what (which is easily gotten) only
gets us as far as the sky, whilst leaving the stars in full view.
I have known this feeling, and as a sacrifice to less
adventurous and well-meaning people, I offer this advice. That there is not merely nothing worse than
sex without connection—there is no sex without connection. Sex without connection is not sex; it is bodily
distraction and useless.
Often we have meaningless sex because we are attempting to
fill a void—so the sex, in actuality, has an ulterior meaning. But the sex, with the attached ulteriority,
lacks the ultimate meaning we seek. Our
emptiness is not adequately vitiated with sex whose purpose is simply to fill
this void. Instead sex must have (what
would seem at first) misdirected purpose.
To fill the void, sex must not be meant
to fill the void. It must be meant for
some other purpose. In fact, there is
really only one other purpose for which sex must be meant in order to be the one that indirectly eliminates
this feeling of emptiness (fills the void). That type of sex is so onerous as to require
that one should have completely forgotten about one’s emptiness and care merely
about the sex and whatever it brings. To
address emptiness, sex must lose itself in forgetting about the void in such a way as to relate absolutely no concern to filling it in the first place.
I remember when we made out.
You and I. On the rock that kept
us inches from the wet, of the creek. We
walked around town, and we got candy together. I had a boner the whole time. Holding your hand was like holding love in my palm. I had no concern for whatever it meant, or for
whatever it would bring me. As much as I
thought it would be stupid to forget about the future—what this relationship
meant and what it would become—I forgot about everything. As much as I thought I would never forget my
emptiness and forget that it existed even, I
completely forgot. And now you have been gone for some time. But one remembers these things for sure.
So, perhaps simply to be contrary, I will re-assert my
vanilla-hood. I am staking my flag, my
wafer-shaped rag, I am a skinny white ***.
You are not the only person who can have fun. In fact my fun is much more fun. So back off: this is not boring, nor is this
actually all that “normal” or “regular.”
There are few who’d dare to admit they only like connected, sensual, rhythmic,
equal, passionate, immense, loving, intimate sex. Well I contend that this is the only kind of sex.
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