I had some. And no, I won’t tell you with who.
It was bound to happen sooner or later. In my case, it happened later. For over a year, I’ve been living like a monk. Perhaps my brain needed some time to rewire. By nature and circumstance, I’m a fundamentally monogamous creature. Although I’ve been broken up for ages, until about a month ago, even the idea of sex with strangers felt like cheating. It’s irrational but I don’t reason with my feelings. I prefer to ignore them.
And I do not “rebound.” That’s not a human condition. It’s a soap opera plot device.
But one night I was laying in bed and it occurred to me: I could just fuck. It’s no big deal. People fuck all of the time. They really seem into it. People meet up, exchange pleasantries and start fucking. It’s very simple and it doesn’t really mean that much. There’s a whole world fucking itself out there. Perhaps it was time to join in.
So I did.
And I’m not very impressed.
Sex is certainly fun and I can think of worse ways to spend a night. The problem is, I can also think of better ones. When I drank, casual sex was just one of those things that happened. You wake up in strange places with strange people, peel a wayward pizza slice off your ass-cheek, exchange contact information like two people in a fender-bender and go upon your way. It’s just sort of there. A half blacked-out part of some boozy ecosystem.
Sober, it resembles nothing so much as taking your pants off in front of a stranger. It’s a very physical experience and I don’t even like to walk quickly. Casual sex is more pleasant than a medical exam but something along the same lines. Perhaps there’s something wrong with me. Some people kill over sex. I’m almost unwilling to walk upstairs.
Although I know that I’m a bit distant and narcissistic, my disinterest in the whole endeavor was rather shocking. Mainly, I was concerned with possible damage to my clothes and thinking about D.H. Lawrence’s “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” — a book that frames my whole understanding of sex. The experience seemed hollow.
Pleasant but hollow.
Everything should always be an expression of something else and everything usually is.
Casual sex expresses nothing interesting. The men who enjoy it are often infatuated with conquest. I’m not. Conquest bores me. Other people don’t even have anything worth taking. These men need to be validated through other people’s attention. I already pay an indecent amount of attention to myself. You can’t begin to match it. Nor should you.
Most of these fellows feel that they’re hopelessly unattractive. When they convince a woman to have sex with them, they feel as if they’ve tricked her. They’ve gotten away with something. Aside from being pathetic, it’s a thrilling but dumb sort of sport.
To this sort of man, any woman, by desiring them, has proven herself stupid. This is why they can only love those who reject them. Accepting them implies a character flaw. In my opinion, it may actually prove one. To me, any woman, by desiring me, has proven herself to be a creature of remarkable taste and good sense. Any person can drastically improve my opinion of them by drastically improving their opinion of me.
My mind is not the prettiest thing, perhaps.
But neither is casual sex. Without all of that self-validating nonsense, it’s just the body expressing its own stupid necessity. It’s masturbation with company. I prefer to masturbate alone. I don’t wish to treat humans like soiled tissues. Most of them deserve worst than that.
Sex, like all things, should be an expression of skill. The body is an instrument. Playing it well takes some practiced familiarity, some intelligent improvisation and a lot of love. There is a world of difference between a ham-fisted drunk spending a single night hammering away at a piano and someone who loves the instrument enough to learn its quirks. I’m not Glenn Gould, nor am I some noisy lout making a violent racket. I’m probably Nora the piano playing cat.