This post contains an unusual amount of honesty. If you suspect that this may be something you aren’t ready to read, I encourage you to read it, because it’s for you. This post is about sex.
But the story about this wonderful, joyous pastime, the story of its extraordinary implications, and the story of how these implications are inextricably intertwined with this unremarkable blog begins very grimly.
It begins with death.
Jeremy Bentham, founder of the utilitarian school of thought as an alternative to Immanuel Kant’s deontology, spent a fair amount of time trying to break the taboo of death so that people may conquer the fear of their own mortality and live happier lives. He encouraged people to decorate their yards with human corpses instead of trees so that, among other reasons, the constant reminder of death would render it a trivial matter (as trivial as homeless people are today, illustrated in this underrated stand-up bit by Louis CK). He also requested that his own body be preserved and put on display, which it still is at the University College London today.
You’re gonna have to die, John.
The garden corpses idea hasn’t exactly caught on since Bentham’s death in 1832, which isn’t surprising considering its apparent impracticality and the suppression of publication of Bentham’s paper detailing this idea. However the notion of trivializing a touchy topic through talking about it candidly and openly is one that I am very fond of.
The taboo of sex seems to run parallel to the taboo of death. This paragraph is supposed to segue into the subject of sex by way of the French euphemism for an orgasm, la petite mort, whose literal translation is “the little death”. But I couldn’t be arsed to figure out a way of doing it smoothly, so instead here’s an unlubricated fourth-wall-breaking paragraph that blatantly states my intention and thereby fails to fulfill it. Nobody pays me to write this shit, people. So: death → sex.
Unlike death, sex is an idea whose taboo can seriously inhibit, or wholly destroy, our chance to enjoy it in all its gory glory. Our generation doesn’t exactly fear sex (despite the best efforts of some holier-than-thou organisations, about which I have some quite inflammatory comments that I’ll reserve for Part 2 of this blog-post-arc). We’re also not too shy about discussing it – as long as the conversation remains out there and doesn’t concern us directly. We can talk about penis enlargement, Viagra and vibrators in hypothetical or gossipy terms, but not about whether or how these things are part of our personal lives.
This is not a confession nor is it intended for shock value, although shock may sadly be the only effect it’s going to have in the minds of some conservative readers. It’s my opinion that in an ideal world, what you’re about to read should be utterly boring.
I lost my virginity at 17. In the 7 years since then, I’ve had penetrative sex with 10 people, all of them female, probably somewhere between 50 and 100 times in total. One thing that many people find odd (and in some cases insulting) is that more often than not, I don’t orgasm during intercourse. I don’t consider it a problem because I find much deeper enjoyment in pleasing than being pleased. (I’m sure there’s some Freudian interpretation of that, which I’ll allow you to discern in your own time.) When this happens, I usually just masturbate the next morning while reflecting on the events of the night before, which is similar to reliving the experience like a highlight reel in my head.
This next paragraph had some more details about the genitals with which I’ve had the pleasure of acquainting myself, but I decided to delete it because it would be kinda pointless. Suffice it to say, vaginas come in many shapes, sizes and smells, some more pleasant than others. I can’t imagine as big a variety of dicks in existence as there are species of vagina; and it makes no sense to me that men seem to be more insecure about their genitals than women. I have seen one or two hideous vaginas in my time. Penises, the way I understand them, are extremely one-dimensional in comparison.
Governor Schwarzenegger explains why he will never run for office in Hammerfell.
So although girls may experience penis envy in their childhood, the yoke of men throughout adulthood is far more taxing. Not that I’m complaining; on the whole, evolution has fucked women over in far too many ways, so it’s good to see a hint of feminism on the part of Mother Nature. Still, I’d love to have a vagina that I can just press against the seat of my chair at work when I need to uplift my mood. But then I’d probably have to suffer through periods, which are a whole other huge issue and I’d rather not open that big can of unsavoury red liquid right now.
Before I get too side-tracked, let me end this post right here. I think I’ve made my point.
Part 2, if you’re wondering, will be about pornography.
musingsofmadjarov 