Work Text:
I overheard a colleague at work the other day make a strange comment to another person and the words, at the time, meant little to me, so I just fluffed it off as ‘girl talk’ and went my own way. Later in the day, the words, for some unknown reason, continued to bounce around in my skull and, pretty much, began to give me a bad case of indigestion. I know, that’s what I get for eavesdropping, right?
Okay, you may be correct about that but, in my defense, I wasn’t *intentionally* snooping or prying or trying to nose around where I wasn’t invited. Well, I wasn’t. It was just a simple case of being in the wrong place at the right time. Or, should that be, the right place at the wrong time? I don’t know but, whatever you want to call it, it ended up making both my gut and my head hurt.
My colleague’s words were simple and easy to understand but, if ’d heard her correctly…and I’m sure I did…she was merely repeating something she’d heard another say, so, hey, I’m not alone in the eavesdropping category. Anyway, this unnamed or unidentified ‘original’ person who’d made the statement, “Sex is beautiful”, had set my two associates off and, boy, let me tell you, from what I’d heard, they were really getting into the groove and agreeing one-hundred percent with him…or her.
Agreeing. Both of them. Which, I suppose, shouldn’t be unexpected because they are close friends and, from what I’ve heard, confidants.
But as the day progressed and my insides continued to churn and throb, I came to the conclusion that this ‘original’ person sure didn’t know what the hell he (or she) was talking about, at least, not in my relatively unbiased and somewhat open-minded opinion. I mean the whole idea of ‘beauty’ somehow being synonymous with ‘sex’ is just plain absurd and, really, pretty offensive to anyone who enjoys (or has enjoyed) a good, mutually satisfying sexual encounter with the partner of choice.
To me, sex has always been fairly energetic and lustful and primal and a bunch of other adjectives that are practically streaming through my consciousness (and lower body parts) as I write this entry but never once, in all the years I’ve been actively participating in sex, could I ever place the word ‘beautiful’ in the description of what took place. If forced to use illustrative words, I would go in a totally different direction. Totally.
Okay, let’s get real and think logically for a moment or two: ‘beautiful’ implies a lovely, pleasing-to-look-at experience or an encounter devoid of any unsightly or embarrassing instances. It surely conjures up images of fresh, dew-kissed roses or of the first, pristine, white snowfall of the year. ’Beautiful’ signifies the sound of remarkable voices combining in rich, layered, perfect harmonies or the rare, defining moment when you discover you can communicate soundlessly with your best friend. ‘Beautiful’ is the genuine, open, untainted laughter of a truly happy child or the deeply humbling and reverently touching sensation of connecting spiritually with some omnipresent deity. ‘Beautiful’ can be as magnificent and complex as a full moon hanging low in a dark, October night sky or as simple as an ice-cold beer on a blistering hot, August afternoon. All those things are, to me, extremely beautiful.
But beautiful sex? Nah, I just don’t get it.
So, it got me thinking: why would someone so erroneously declare to the world that, ‘Sex is a beautiful thing’? What on God’s good earth made this person say such a ludicrous thing and, more importantly, hasn’t this unnamed but often quoted person ever had sex? Real sex? Come on, if he/she had, he/she would have never made such an absurd proclamation. Never.
Now, my thinking is that this elusive, unnamed ‘someone’ (let me refer to him as Joe…just for simplicity…although Jill would work just as well) might have watched some big-budget, Hollywood cinematic offering some time ago, found it ripe with aesthetically pleasing (surgically enhanced) couples, engaged in equally exquisite (staged) lovemaking, with hair and make-up perfect (stylists waiting in the wings for easy touch-up), with surrounding (fake) scenery providing an erotically agreeable backdrop, and thought he was witnessing the epitome of what sex is all about. Or, in Joe’s narrow, inexperienced mind, *should* be all about. Joe might have, also, heard tender (rehearsed) words and seen passionate (artificial) glances exchanged between the fortunate couple (actors) but what he actually saw was some (high-paid) director’s interpretation of what had been outlined on the screenwriter’s script.
Places everyone. Roll cameras and…action!
It was all *fake*, Joe. That was not real sex…trust me on this.
I think modern movie-goers and television-watchers and even romance novel readers are so used to suspending reality, sitting comfortably back in padded chairs in the middle of darkened theaters or in living room recliners or, yeah, baby, even propped up in the middle of their nice, cozy beds, hoping for nothing more than to be taken away from the ho-hum, mind-numbing, monotonous doldrums of everyday living, that the boundaries between reality and the imagination begin to turn hazy and bleed together. Joe (and Jill) crave to be taken to a place where they can suspend belief and just live in the thrilling moment of sheer entertainment, forgetting their average lives for a while, putting aside the ever-present bills and the assorted worries and the energy-sapping job from hell. Let’s face facts: it’s damn nice to vicariously watch as those on the screen blow up banks or fly off to exotic destinations or battle with alien creatures so hideous they come back to haunt dreams. And, if they’re very lucky, Joe and Jill (they could be on a date) may even get to view a sex scene, in all it’s scintillating, carefully lit, fabricated glory.
The genuine problem is that real life comes rolling right back in when the theater lights come on or the program ends or the last page of the book is turned. Joe and Jill now have to go home (or turn off the TV or close the book) and face their real life problems again. This is where, I suspect, the lines between what happened on the screen and what happens in the bedroom begins to blur again…and asinine statements are made. Joe and Jill may not be able to fly off to exotic destinations or battle alien space creatures but they sure as hell can have sex. Oh, baby, yeah.
But, once again, the images of what Hollywood deems as ‘real sex’ starts replaying in the mind’s eye and there’s no way in hell Joe (or Jill) can ever live up to all that fabricated glory, no matter how hard they try. Memories of beautiful words and beautiful touches and all those intensely beautiful feelings jump straight to the forefront. Attempts are made to emulate what was heard or said or done on the screen or page but there’s no director there to feed lines or position bodies and Joe and Jill have to face the fact they are not Hugh Jackman or Angelina Jolie. Hell, they’re not even Jack Black or Renee Zellweger (Hey, this is *my* essay. I can choose who *I* want!). Regardless of who they are or aren’t, what they have is *real*…and, let’s face it, ‘real’ is not particularly beautiful.
Come on…bear with me for just a little while longer. I’m trying to make a point here.
When the clothes finally begin to come off, there’s often a lot left to be desired, especially if Joe and Jill start comparing themselves…or their partners…to any of those actors or actresses or illusionary characters created by some talented author or screenwriter. Unlike those other ‘people’, they may have to worry about bad breath or unwanted body odor or even unshaven legs or chins. We won’t even discuss, excuse the pun, the ‘pit’ falls (heh) of the underarm area. Joe or Jill may have a brief moment of concern, fretting over the condition of their underwear (or lack of it) and there may even be some mutual, gut-clenching anxiety about the expected sexual performance. A guy could possibly have a relatively short fuse, a real hair-trigger when it comes to ejaculation, and have to fight with himself merely to stay in the game. Or a woman may find it difficult to reach the big ‘O’ without a lot of ‘special’ attention and end up spending time mentally agonizing over whether she may have to fake it, just to appease her partner’s ego and not appear ‘cold’.
Not much room for ‘beauty’, is there? And I’m just getting started.
Real sex gets the heart pounding and the nerve-endings sizzling. Real sex, even ’vanilla’ sex, makes Joe (or Jill) sweat and writhe and moan. It’s about skin and spit and warts and body odor. It’s about tongues and tits and dicks and pussys and, let’s face it, most of those things…on most people I know…are not in the least bit beautiful. Oh, sure…I may admire a woman’s breasts or another guy’s cock but I don’t ever recall considering those body parts ‘beautiful’. Penis envy? Sure. Vaginal admiration? Er, well…okay, maybe I’m getting a little off topic but I think you’re seeing where I’m coming from now. But, in the long run, all this doesn’t really matter because real sex is simply all about getting off and that can be accomplished without ever looking (or smelling) too closely at the chosen, sexual partner.
What? Did I say something offensive now?
Oh, come on…I never said anything about incorporating paper bags over heads in this scenario and I really feel I need to justify my opinion. This is an entry about *sex*, not romance, and even if you don’t want to believe it, they are two, totally different animals. You know they are. The highly elusive notion of romance is completely different than the naturally lustful act of sex.
From the moment I begin thinking about having sex, I’m instantly imagining about getting off. It’s all about the orgasm. Oh, yeah. Okay, maybe that’s a guy thing, I don’t know, but it’s there…always…trying to take control of the whole experience. I’m being painfully honest here and any guy that tells you differently is lying through his teeth. Sure, it’s nice to kiss and suck and exchange intimate touches and strokes but it’s all heading toward one goal. I usually have to fight the urge to come, hoping like hell my partner is being satisfied, but once the dick is in and those feelings begin, all bets are off.
And let’s address all that ‘getting-off-together’ crap they show in the movies, where couples reach orgasm simultaneously…every, *single*, fucking time. It’s nothing but acting and, unless you’re watching porn, it usually doesn’t happen like that. You know it doesn’t.
You know the drill: the woman (actress) arches her spine, drags her nails (pressed-on) across her lover’s (actor’s) toned back, and like teamwork, they reach sexual bliss at the very same moment. Come on, no one has it that good all the time. No one.
Having an orgasm can take a lot of work…and work is something guys don’t usually like to think about when it comes to the subject of sex. When talking about it (or thinking about it or doing it), a guy will rarely use the word ’work’…unless he’s with a female who’s known to have problems coming. That’s when things can get messy. That’s when sex *does* become work.
I’ve been up-close-and-personal with several clitorises in my life and none of them are the same. Some just take a few easy rubs or licks or strokes and…wham!…there she blows. Just listen to that pussy purr. Oh, yeah. Get your motor running, baby. But others are more shy, need a bit more coaxing and attention, expect you to take your time and focus your whole body on them. Now, that’s work, especially if you’ve got an unhappy dick telling you to hurry up so he can have some fun, too. But a guy has to ignore his discontented appendage until his partner finds her (or his) happy place and, then, they can cheerfully ride off together into the setting sun and live happily ever after.
Oh, wait a minute. I’m talking about *real* life here. Forget I said anything about setting suns or happiness.
Now, my partner and I may not look like movie stars (sad but true) but we can roll around on (cotton) sheets or on kitchen tables or against hallway walls with the best of them. Do we speak to each other while engaged in this energetic and adventurous act? Well, not if you go by what is seen in movies (and, nowadays, on television) but we do communicate. Sure, there’s plenty of moaning and groaning and hissing and grunting (okay, maybe that’s just me) but there’s also directional words. You know: ‘right there’ or ‘a little harder’ or ‘shift up’….those kind of words. Sometimes, there are even a few ‘slow downs’ or ‘ease ups’ or ‘wait, wait, waits!’. I think I can even recall a couple of ‘don’t come yets’ but my fragile ego doesn’t want to address that right now. And believe me, even if I remembered to put in a cd or flip on the radio before engaging in my favorite pastime (and to cover up my manly moans and grunts), our background music was never scored exclusively for us by some high-price musical director. To tell the truth, I don’t think I’d know what to do if I had some orchestra reaching a beautiful crescendo just as I was reaching my own climax. It would be too much like competition, and let’s face it, against big-budget soundtracks and multi-million dollar blockbusters, this guy would, probably, just peter out. Literally.
But enough about me. Please. Let’s get back to Joe and his beautiful sex propaganda.
Even if we forget what’s seen in the movies or on TV, the pitfalls for believing in Joe’s beautiful sex theory is still surrounding us. Everywhere. We only need to turn on our computers (where are you right now?) or, better yet, open a real book (with pages and everything) and it almost smacks you in the face. It’s highly likely Joe read some fanfiction on the internet or one of those extremely popular (offensive), historical romance novels, where flowing haired (think Fabio), tanned (sprayed-on), muscular(steroid- induced) studs rip bodices from innocent (frigid), virginal (yeah, right), captured (slow running) young ladies, carting them off to dark, desolate castles, and transforming them instantly into wild, wanton women (whores). The lurid details of their sexual escapades always are astounding, taking sexual intercourse…and the unbelievably adventurous (preposterous) round of foreplay that proceeds the act…to a plane of existence never seen before by mortal man (or woman). It all looks pretty good on a page (or on a monitor) but, again, it’s not real.
If we have to talk about sex (and I’m all for that), then I think we need to be truthful about it. Yes, it’s natural…notice I didn’t say ‘normal’ (that’s a whole different can of worms)…and can be many different things to many different people. It can be frustrating or satisfying. It can be a pleasure or a disappointment. It can even be fun and humorous if you’re in the right frame of mind. I’ve had sex that was rough, sex that was tender, and sex that was just plain, old okay. I’ve caused pain and I’ve received pain, physically and emotionally, during the sex act. I’ve enjoyed partners and I’ve loathed partners and, on one occasion, I’ve enjoyed and loathed the same person. Sex can be confusing, a real mystery, or it can be easy and trouble-free.
But beautiful? Eh, don’t think so.
Just let me kick back out by the pool as the sun is setting on a hot August afternoon and give me that ice-cold beer to quench my thirst. What could possibly be more beautiful than that?
END