The post reads, “Two things I will not accept in life are bad sex and bullshit.”
Bullshit? I’m with you.
Bad sex? Bad sex. Hmmm. I’m trying real hard to get a handle on this, no pun intended, but it’s not working. “Bad sex” has to be the oxymoron of the century. I used to think it was “military intelligence,” but anyone who thinks sex can be bad, has never lived alone.
Now that’s bad sex.
I also have a confession of sorts to make: I have had sex-all of it good-with only one person since 1981 for the simple fact that I would not be able to have sex with another. Not good sex-not bad sex, simply no sex. Contrary to popular opinion, not all men are predatory wolves, lusting after anything in a skirt.
I speak for myself but assume I am in good company when I say that sex without emotional commitment would not be physically possible. OK. Back the truck up. It would be physically possible if a dude were willing to ingest Corporate ‘Merica’s answer to LDS (Limp Dick Syndrome), but that is grist for a different post.
I simply mean that there is a cause and effect thing going on here. Because I am emotionally committed to one person, I would be incapable of physical intimacy with another, unless I severed that original emotional bond first. How do I know? The same way I know that to jump out of an airplane without a parachute would be hazardous to my health.
When my partner and I got together in January of 1981, she laid down two rules with such matter-of-factness, that I never for one instant doubted her word. She said, “If you ever hit me or cheat on me, it is all over between us, without any second chance.”
I gazed at the most beautiful woman I had ever met and thought to myself, “Wow, you’re easy.”
She didn’t mind that I was a bearded, long-haired hippie clerk in an auto parts store, and a “professional student” at San Jose State University. She didn’t mind that I had no television and two cats, and she didn’t even freak out on our first date, when I had to have her pop the clutch on my ’62 VW Double Slug, as I pushed it.
On the other hand, she couldn’t help but notice and appreciate the fact that I had the foresight to point Ole Paint’s nose down an incline, to help the process along.
Sex is the part of a relationship which “helps the process along,” the process in this case being that of the business of living life. With three active sons, two highly complex jobs between the two of us and the plethora of challenges that come with this kind of lifestyle, there has to be benefits.
Who would sign up for it all, otherwise?
Woody Allen, that paragon of sexual virtue, said it best when he quipped, “I never met an orgasm I didn’t like.” I can hate the messenger without hating the message, and he is right.
|Would you buy a used car from any one of these three?|
When two people bind themselves together, no matter which gender(s) are involved, sex had better be the high point of that relationship, if it is to have any chance of success. Of course this is an opinion and there are bound to be examples of couples who place children, careers or other things higher on the list than sex.
And if that works, more power to these folks. It just never would work for me.
I suppose sex could be bad in the way that eating a hot fudge sundae could be bad…don’t you just hate those brain freezes from proceeding too fast?
Aside from that, sex is good-always.
So until we get tired of the whole thing (“He got tired of the hole; she got tired of the thing…”), sex by definition cannot be bad.
Nether can hot fudge sundaes.