Johnnie
Taylor had the right idea with his funky paean to illicit sex. What was good
for the goose was good for the gander. But was Johnny really “making
love”? Making love a phrase so quaint I hadn’t seen it referenced since Nick
and Nora Charles walked out of their bedroom holding highball glasses, he in
his cutaway and she in her strapless evening gown. That was 1933 when people
did make love, but today you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who is man enough
to admit that the road to conjugality is not littered with the coarse remains
of truncheons, maces and iron maidens.
When
it comes to making love today’s machinations have all of the subtlety of a
fetish convention hosted by Richard von Krafft-Ebing. By the way, Jody von
Krafft-Ebing will be signing copies of his great, great grandfather's book
Psychopathia Sexualis at this year’s Anal-con August 6-9.
Leave
it to Beaver takes on a whole new meaning these frothy days as pornography has
gone mainstream. Porn’s imprimatur is on everything from the soft-core
offerings on reality TV to the twisted acrobatics performed by the human
pincushions on the Internet. From its infiltration into commercial cinema (see
Brown Bunny only to glory in the oral talents of Chloe Sevigny) to the abject
fear mongering of the evangelical right porn has found a way to be this
generation’s greatest mover and shaker of its fantasies. Unfortunately, it
exculpates them too. The web caters to every original taste and sicko craving
that has ever been remanded to the darkest corners of man’s consciousness. Log
on for ten minutes and you’ll find a clearinghouse for every warped bit of
perversity the human mind can possibly conjure. It is here that you’ll enjoy
the freshly spanked and shaven hordes, the girls gone wild, the ass
worshippers, the stomata humpers, the sommeliers, the insertion freaks, the
interracial, busty midget cock riders, the fudge slurping, jizz chugging, urine
gargling gutter jockeys who trawl this miasma of nuttiness and if you don’t
believe me then I’m not your typical red blooded, all-American, transgender
foot fetishist. Even as I write, it is raining harder than a bukkake film
directed by John Woo. See what I mean?
I
met a woman at a bar the other day. She was in her thirties and pretty enough.
She was on the verge of inebriation and began to tell me about her lousy day
and even lousier week. Kidding her I said that if her day didn’t improve I
would toddle on over to her hotel room and I would be more than happy to make
some sweet, sweet love to her.
She
cocked her head in a combination of bemused puzzlement and alcohol reduction
her sagging countenance struggling against the will of a 5th Cosmopolitan.
“Are
you talking about fucking?” she queried. I said, “Oh yeah, there’s gonna be
plenty of fucking. But what I’m thinking about has to do with a more complete
sexual experience…a buffet of the senses so to speak!”
“I’m
in room 813 and don’t forget to bring a horse harness.”
“I
just want you to know,” I parried. “I am a bit of a weirdo, a connoisseur of a
most particular kind, a kinky motherfucker in some circles.”
“You’re
not gonna fuck me wearing a diaper while sucking on a binky are you?”
“Hardly…”
“Lick
the resplendent residue from the soles of my feet? Smell the fetid remains of
my panty liner? Perhaps you want me to spank and humiliate you while you enjoy
a big bowl of Alpo?”
“No,
no, no…you’re not even close.”
“What
then could be so perverted, so beyond the pale of human expression?”
I
was willing to confess knowing full well that after my mea culpa this pickled
puma would never remember anything the next day let alone the Rolfing she was
about to receive. For it was my shame and my shame alone…I hesitated for a
second then decided to spill.
“I
like to do it face to face…"
Her
expression did not belie the revulsion she was feeling at this prospect.
“And
if all goes as planned I will even kiss you on the lips…”
Face
to face? Kiss on the lips? I was harkening back to a time when an ounce of pot
was 10 bucks and acid was a nickel.
She
recoiled again her face twisting into a knot of disgust reminiscent of a child
confronted with Brussels sprouts for the first time.
“Listen
taint…you can tie me up, smear me with petroleum jelly. Get a 100 of your
friends to expectorate their manly evidence on my face until I look like a
glazed donut, but as god is my witness we will never do it face to face! Not
even if you have a court order. The thought of anybody looking into my eyes
while committing the most base of all animal behaviors makes me want to blow
lunch!”
If
Lunch was the last name of some former paramour I would concur heartedly, but
this reaction was not commensurate with the satedness she was about to
experience. It was obvious this woman had never felt the tender touch of a
master, let alone one who is known in 38 states and half of Canada as the
Willie Moscone of the bedroom, and was no longer destined to know the
incendiary pleasure of having some heavy English applied to her sugarplum by
the man who pioneered the use of billiard chalk on the tip of his tongue.
This
much was clear, people today have no interest other than the ins and outs of
making love and would rather be duct taped, impaled, and gagged than to gaze
deeply into a lover’s eyes. This is anathema to the modern sexual experience.
For to look that deeply, is to be reminded of the finitude of our corporal
existence.
Even
body hair is looked at with distaste. Everyone and everything has to be
completely shaved devoid of anything reminding us of our animal natures.
Scrotums look like baby peaches and a woman splayed resembles a quarter pound
of chipped ham.
Doing
it face-to-face and kissing on the lips is the single greatest erotic thing I
know of. As a maker of love, I am not what I once was, a boy hell bent on
conquering the heathen female hordes with his instantaneous, telescoping,
titanium riot baton. No, subtlety and nuance are my compatriots now. My goal is
to knocks boots on a higher plane.
Today,
it is not about the quality of lovemaking, but the pure carnality of it. This
impersonal nature is no better than dogs copulating in the street. Fucking is
so cool these days; it is perfectly permissible to text your lovers while
you’re doing it, which, I guess, is a form of multitasking. Texting is OK
because chances are the receptacle on the other end is texting too, informing
friends that you are not that good with those stale moves you ripped off from
some B-list porn guy hired only as atmosphere, thrusting and sneering in the
background of some cookie cutter orgy scene.
Come
on folks, can’t we turn around once in a while and introduce ourselves? I mean,
if your girlfriend can’t describe you to a police sketch artist, you’re
probably doing it doggy style way too much.
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