So, if any of you follow my traditional stuff you know that I write from the heart about subjects I am very fond of: love and suffering. I find nothing better than describing enlightened love between me and my Lover in either poetic or essay form and I enjoy the “painting” of my Soul in this description. I love just sitting down, surrendering, and seeing what my Soul paints through my keyboard onto the canvas of my computer screen. Sometimes I scare myself with what I see when I am done and other times I am amazed. Yet, I always seem to hit the “Submit” button regardless. It’s art, after all!
I get a feeling, however, that most of us are bored with such mundane topics as “pure love” or “intense suffering” or “romance” and want more of the raw, unbridled, hair-pulling sexual prose that is currently popular. To put it more succinctly, it seems we want less romance and more hard fucking.
Sometimes the artist has to paint what the public wants if he is ever going to cease being hungry. Me? Well I’m fine being an unpaid blogger volunteering his artwork to others (at least for now anyway). Today, I just want to write about fucking because I want to write about fucking. Or maybe I want to write about fucking just to prove a point. Or maybe I just want to write the word fucking and keep my vision of a spiritual intellectual when I look in the mirror. Nah, that definitely can’t be it.
Even typing the word “fucking” here feels liberating. I can’t wait to use words like “cock” and “pussy” and “tits”. I can’t wait to describe cumming over and over again while tied to some anonymous woman’s bed. I can’t wait to describe how hot the yoga instructor was in the last class I attended. Her voice sounded something right out of a phone sex service and her body was miraculous. I can’t wait to describe her hard nipples, her inviting ass, her full lips and tits (ring the bell Johnny! Yay!!). Maybe I can even tell you how she brought me back to her “pad” and fucked my brains out. Or, better yet, I can tell you all how I fucked her brains out. What I won’t tell you is that I love her beyond words because, after all, that is irrelevant to the type of story I need to tell here.
Yeah, I can’t wait to dive into fiction. I’m so sick of my normal non-fictional accounts of this human experience. Oh wait, I don’t think I was supposed to actually admit to it being fiction, I was supposed to venture back to high school when us boys discussed fucking the homecoming queen in such detail that it had to be true (wink, wink). I mean, after all, what us authors are supposed to give the public is something they can never achieve either on their own or with their Lover. We are supposed to create a scenario by which almost every non-porn acting fool is disappointed, and then have every experience that fool has seem like a failure.
It’s like painting all non-size zero woman as “fat”, or all men without washboard abs as “less than hot”. I mean if I can’t give you women a “50 Shades of Grey” experience I’ve failed. If I can’t write in a way that leaves you dripping off to the bathroom for a quick “bath” I haven’t done my job. If I haven’t created something that your Lovers could not possibly live up I have ceased to be relevant.
I do love how we consider sexually charged anything as “mature”. We rate games and TV shows that have sexual and/or violent overtones as “M for Mature”. Unfortunately, I don’t see any of it as necessarily mature. I see it as high-school bullshit in which we create figments of fantasy and try to weave it as reality. “Yes, I fucked [insert popular hot chick’s name her] and she told me I was the best!” of our high school years has been replaced with some author’s fantasy of what awesome sex is in order to simply sell books. The trouble with this is that just like in high school where we never fucked the popular hot chick we aren’t going to achieve the level of fantasy and perfection we are fed with in this stuff.
Frankly, I don’t see much “mature” about it. Seriously, are we mature in getting off by reading a book? How mature is it to be in a dark room watching other people have sex while we play with ourselves? I don’t see it as necessarily mature, or the target audience as necessarily mature. No, I don’t feel very mature when watching porn and I certainly don’t feel very mature in how I have to watch it. Add to that how utterly childish I feel when reading porn and, well, I simply don’t see much maturity in any of it.
I do understand that at least porn, whether written or visual, has a purpose. I can watch a clip and do my business if I so desire. I don’t leave the experience ready to discuss it with my friends. I don’t leave the experience believing that my Lover needs to be anything like what I saw in that scene. In fact, I don’t really want anyone to know I’ve done it, and I certainly am not going to my local book store to proudly display it in my cart. I realize that what I have just watched is nothing more than something that will get me off in a very short term, but my real experience lies in the woman who not only “does it for me” but also gives me so much more. It has virtually made porn obsolete at this point. I mean who in their right mind would sleep on sandpaper when they have such wonderful silk sheets to enjoy?
Oopps, there I go again. I had to add something about Love. Dammit, this is about fucking. Ok, “refocus” button hit, Adderall taken and blinders are on. Sorry for the temporary loss of focus.
I should say that I have never read a graphic novel. At least not since graduating elementary school when I first read the book Wifey by Judy Blume. I have to admit that to a 12-year old boy that stuff was awesome! My first real boners were to that book, and I remember not being able to wait until I had sex like that. Fortunately, I’m still waiting.
Maybe I am just lucky. I have a very rewarding sex life. My Lover is awesome, and we have the best sex in the Universe. My forays into porn are very few and far between, and even when I don’t see her for an extended period of time our phone sex rivals any graphic novel or nudie magazine I’ve ever seen. There is no porn starlet that gets me going like my Lover does. There is no graphic novel that can come close to describing the love making that goes on between us. There is no one, real or imagined, that I would replace her with in any department for any reason.
In fact, I did not get a bit sexually excited describing anything until I started thinking about her. Why would I ever need to read about the sex between two fictional characters when I all I have to do is close my eyes and remember our last encounter. Yes, it was awesome and no I’m not telling you about it even if I change her name to Anastasia Steele (no I have not read it, I had to Google the characters of the book).
This is not braggadocio. Or at least I don’t think it is. Maybe I’m just lucky to have found the one person in the world who not only has captured by soul, but my cock too(ring that bell again!). See, she captured my soul long before she captured my cock (ring-a-ling-a-ling!). Maybe that is the secret? Maybe great sex has little to do with the motion of the boat in the ocean and more to do with who is in the boat with us?
See, I’ve failed. I can’t stop writing about romance even when simply trying to be a “dirty little whore”. Maybe it is because I have found that the absolute best sexual experience of my life have come with someone I love beyond words. I feel it important to note that I have had a lot of sexual experiences in my life not to brag but to ensure you that my Lover tops a list that is way too long. The experiences I have had with her make all of the rest seem nonexistent. In fact, I could consider myself a virgin when I met her because I had no idea what great sex was until my first moment with my Lover. I believe that was because I loved her with a deepness indescribable. She had entered me emotionally and spiritually long before I had ever entered her physically.
Still, I understand the big business of turning men and women on. I just returned from BJ’s Wholesale Club (no pun intended) where I always check out their Book Club table. Today, I was treated to at least 25% of it being laden with the latest paperback edition of 50 Shades of Grey (and at $9.99, what a bargain!). I watched the half-dozen or so women meandering around pretending not to be interested in the book. I even saw one woman put her copy under a cookbook in her cart and then return the cookbook. In my mind I walked over and picked up the book and began laughing hysterically as if it were a joke book. I then turned to the woman next to me and asked her where the latest edition of Penthouse Forum was. This was a dream sequence mind you, I didn’t actually do it! Still, it made me chuckle.
Alright, I’m done with my rant. My head hurts and my cranium is aching too (high school humor always gets me). I didn’t get a chance to use the word “pussy” or “tits” so I guess I may have to figure out how to work them in there (wink, wink again). I didn’t get to describe the finger action on someone’s “G” spot or the miraculous art of cunnilingus while reading ESPN magazine. I guess I could just do a sequel…