I can’t think of anything to write about properly despite having met friends and batchmates this week and having plans to meet friends and batchmates again. So maybe we’ll strike a chord with this – Let’s talk about Sex and Love (baby). If they have anything to do with the other, if they matter (Spoilers: Hells Yeah, at least for the sex), if you need one for the other, if you can really love objects, that sort of thing.
Please know, my primary objective here is to educate and inform yall about the various ways in which you can be completely unsafe with your body and emotions, and hence live life to the fullest. For those who want to be wimps, there is this amazingly awesome channel called Sexplanations on YouTube. Hank Green created, of course. It’s hosted, for lack of a better word, by this woman called Lindsey Doe (I know. Wickedly close to Lindsay Dole from The Practice. Oh, Law School days, how you come to mock me with your emotional link to certain TV shows) who’s a professional sexologist and really good at explaining some shit. I recommend it to everyone, especially guys who don’t have a clue (basically, most men). Also, there’s Laci Green.
ME: Watch it. You’re overusing brackets again.
me: Right you are (mumbles under breath) you pompous twit. [I’m watching a lot of British stuff these days. Is it obvious, darlings?]
Let’s begin then, shall we?
For any young’uns out there, especially those who read and watch TV and shit, it’s important to remember that your imagination and sex will always have a BDSM relationship, with sex usually telling your imagination to lie there with its twee all swollen while the sex drinks some coffee. Sometimes there’s a role reversal and your imagination will tell sex to try maple syrup, and sex will not like it at all.
ME: This is uselessly gratuitous.
me: it sells.
The first time I imagined sex, it was pretty much the exact scene from the very first Mills and Boon I read. It was called Willing to Wed, written by Cathy Williams. The guy was Irish, rich and called James Kellern. I have often postulated that my love for Irishmen may originate from thence (incorrect grammar?). The girl was called Ellie, short for Elliot. It was my first introduction to an actual sex scene. Before that, I had thought the lifeboat scene from Kane and Abel was the height of pornographic/ adult literature. Regardless, I read that book till it was literally ragged. Back then I used to have a habit of tearing off the sides and corners of pages in books and chewing them up to form spitballs that I’d very rarely spit (now I only do this with notebooks and old newspapers). The sex scene pages from Willing to Wed were the most torn off corners of any of the books I ever read or have read since then. It went missing during one of the many moves my family made during my adolescence. Perhaps my parents noticed the book, its contents and its condition, and decided that it had to be “taken care of” post haste. Either way, I have looked for the book far and wide. There are some sites that speak of its existence, but none that allow me access to it without paying money.
For those who know me now, you must probably imagine some seriously weird shit, ranging from angry slapping and other forms of abuse to absurd experimentation with sexual supplements. Let it be a lesson to one and all who are afraid they’re sexually boring at the beginning of their sexual awakenings (how many times can I use the word “sexual” before some sort of natural internet age-check comes along for viewers?), worry not, because you’ll get there if my example is anything to go by. The book contained the most ‘90’s Mills and Boon-y sex you could imagine. This was the stage of Mills and Boone after they started actually describing sex, and before they knew the meaning of a sexually aware and possibly promiscuous woman, not that they know too much about it now, but it’s a wee bit better. The basic story was the same – man and woman meet, initially don’t take to each other but are also clearly attracted. They eventually give in to their mutual lust only to discover over time, and to the insistence of a beautifully (problematic, I know) possessive/ psychotic guy, that they are actually in love. Then they get married, at which point the book ends.
When I first imagined it, not only was the sex exactly as described in that book, it ended with me getting together with the guy. Of course, my commitment issues were pretty apparent even at the age of twelve in that I always thought of life after marrying James Kellern and would always end up thinking it was boring and desperately trying to find ways to spice it up. When I learnt how to use the internet properly many years later, I spent a lot of time on sites which gave Cosmopolitan-esque advice on how to make my imagined marriage less dull. But the important bit here, lest we lose sight of it, is that I did imagine marriage, and I could think of only the most basic sort of sex – quite a bit of boob play, some cunnilingus, missionary style, break, shower scene, boob play, against the wall sex. There wasn’t even any blow job as far as I can recall, though my memory may be unprecedentedly wrong in this instant.
All of the initial fantasizing based on the sex-and-love-go-together story has given me some pause in the past. I’ve often wondered if at some point in the midst of my utterly colorless teenage love/ sex life I purposely chose to forsake one for the other. That perhaps all the determined sluttishness and lack of concern for my feelings and those of the people with whom I badoinkadoink is some sort of defense mechanism. That would definitely fulfill the premise of a love story better – “I’m not really a slut, I just need someone to really love and understand me, and I’d give up this life of endless orgasms and weirdly satisfying fellatio in a heartbeat.”
I know a lot of people think so, including people who care about me. Almost everyone wants to see everyone they care about settle down, not really because of convention, at least not among us Ivy League-esque young adults, but because we all accept and know at some age that everyone will get married, and everyone will need someone with them in order to cope with the fact that everyone else got married. So I guess it’s natural that people should hope/ maliciously plan for me to one day meet a guy I fall terribly in love with and for whom I feel all the feelings which I have been making faces at and not really understanding and making fun of for all these years.
My school friends, knowing my tendencies, predicted quite incorrectly as it turns out, that I’d be the first one to get married. They longed for that day. The one I actively keep in touch with still waits patiently for lightning to strike me. I recently told her about a ridiculous offer made to me (that to be fair, I considered for half a second while drunk), which she chose to interpret as the offerer (offeror?) being in love with me, but I pointed out was said person being an idiot. She eventually came to see my point. I swear I saw hope dying in her eyes. It was fun.
My college friends used to tell me for the first two or three years they knew me that I’d be the first one to get married. I believe their hopes are also very close to being crushed. Of course after said two or three years they realized that perhaps I wasn’t going to be the lead-role in a romantic comedy. Mine was to be a tragi-comedy where the last scene is probably me dying of an orgasm at the hands of my gigolo at age ninety (fingers crossed).
There have been moments where I myself have wondered if they’re right. The idea never stuck. I can imagine the perfect guy and falling in love with him and I can imagine getting bored and wanting to leave and possibly never getting the guts to do so. Of course I don’t want to imagine meeting the perfect guy and falling in love and being left. Which of course would lead to the inevitable question – do I not care for marriage purely because I’m afraid? That’s never a good reason to do or not do anything.
But what finally settled it was poetically, what started it as well – pornographic literature. I found Ellora’s Cave – a publishing company for erotic literature. And this literature is not really Mills and Boon material. Yes, people get married and all that but this is the porn with orgies and role-play and anal and BDSM and bondage and stops just short of excreta (thank god for that – that would be the point where I use my safe word), not Mills and Boon. I was already introduced to the idea of a healthy yet intense BDSM lifestyle because of Secretary (Before watching that movie I thought James Spader was hottest as Alan Shore. Fuck no.) but that was the first time I actually encountered the graphic sex part of the life. It occurred to me then that while I may not be into orgies or anal or BDSM or the rest of it despite liking the porn, I was definitely not into settling for one person for any considerable length of time.
Maybe I’d be categorized as “oversexed” by most people, and definitely as “HUGE twat of a slut” by others and “always asking for it” by some utter shits. To be fair, what with the rumors of silent judgment surrounding my various exploits (not judgment for the lives they mess up, because I do deserve to be judged for that to some extent, no doubt, but for the exploit itself) I have often been a bit disappointed with myself. Not really because I felt bad for things I did but because I felt like I should ideally feel a bit bad.
Of course those were the days before I just stopped giving a fuck. I suspect that day came when I realized that a lot of people read my blog and were weirdly aware of my sex life. There comes a point when some things about oneself has to be accepted. I’m very far from confident and self-actualized in a lot of departments but I can honestly say that’s not the case when it comes to accepting myself as the sexual person I am. I used to pray for the day that I was certain about any one thing in my life, be it career or love or marriage or anything. I guess its only fair to karma-doesn’t-exist that it had to be sex and sexuality for me.
And what, dear slightly disturbed reader, can you take away from this? Certainly not that you should disregard any inclination you have to be romantic or to not be romantic. Simply to be a bit open to the idea that you may or may not be a total sap or an unforgiving slut, and to figure it out independent of what the haters think about that time you made out with a man twice your age. I may be very certain about a lot of things, but I’m still open to the idea that one day perhaps I’ll go mad and fall in love with someone and it will last long enough for me to settle down. At least I think I am. After all, I still hope that one day I’ll find my way back to that precious Mills and Boon that opened up a magical world for me.
P.S. – Seriously, if anyone runs into that book, please buy it for me. Old Mills and Boons cost less than a hundred bucks. Just buy it and I’ll pay you if you want. Willing to Wed by Cathy Williams. I’m really nostalgic about this. It’s not a joke.
Also, here’s some fun gifs. If it’s not obvious, I didn’t make any of them and they’re all stolen If you want to find them, join tumblr and you eventually will.