Demons In My Semen

The gray space between my vices is made of viscous material that clings to me as I tread. It smells like motor oil and it tases like cotton candy. I suppose I'm a bisexual in that place, but I've always prefered ambiguous. I have decided that all of my sins are based on the female body, not out of some misogynistic desire to place blame on the Unholy Vagina, but out of a deep-seated need to watch them orgasm. Alright, I'm half-lying. I don't need to see anyone orgasm, I just enjoy it. And I relate everything, sins or otherwise, to the female body. What I'm saying is: I totally dig chicks.

Really, though, what else is there? There's a popular saying, "sex sells" and people from all walks of life, from all pseudo-intellectual industries and areas of scholastic pursuit will give you different reasons for why such is the case. Most of them have to do with the fact that human beings have, historically, been sexually repressed to the point of psychosis. Frankly, I think that's bullshit.

Human beings don't talk about sex in public forum because we don't need to. Not directly. Everything we do talk about revolves, albeit often vaguely, around sex. You don't expect to ask your neighbor what he thinks of the weather only to have him reply with "Good weather for outdoor fucking," because you already know that. You did it just this morning with that hot little number from the gas station. If you didn't manage to bag that, you were surely thinking about it.

I'm not excluding those of you in possession of yon Almighty Cooter. You think about it too. You discuss it. You go back and forth about whether it makes you a slut to give it up to that guy who tips you every morning with the thirty-six cents he has left over from his coffee, the one who makes casual conversation, maybe winks at you like you've shared some private joke. In reality, you've already made that decision. What your friends think matters about as much as a fart in a gas chamber (suck it, flatulent, vindictive Jews).

The point I'm getting at is that, despite claims to the contrary, all we actually dwell on is sex. Having a hard time meeting that deadline at work? Well, you'd better! Otherwise you won't get the promotion, won't be able to afford that new Lexus, won't be able to go out scamming for bar skanks with "loose morals". Do you have writer's block? Well, my friend, figure out where that story/poem/essay/clever blog about Obama using wordplay exlcusive to the size of his "Barack" is going. Otherwise you'll have no time to think of anything else and that guy with who tips you every morning? He'll decide your glassy, brainless stare is less the side-effects of not writing and more the side-effects of an overdose on Valium.

Speaking of writing, give me a story without any inherent conflict based upon sex. You can't, because that story doesn't exist. Anything, from The Scarlet Letter to a three-page story about one guy drinking himself to death in a bunker in Siberia while the temperature outside drops from murderous cold to ball-crushingly murderous cold, contains some hint, some little clue to all the debaucherous, fictional sex those characters wish they were having (or are actively trying to have/forget they had/deny they thought about/ deny they are currently participating in with your girlfriend while you write five thousand words of nonsense about how you only think with your meat stick). Regardless of the story's content, the presence of a romantic conflict or lack thereof, something will arise that is, when you boil it down, about something penetrating something.

I'm not even reaching here. I could reach. Do you want me to reach? A little reach-around? See? I did it right there. I took an abstract concept (that of wriggling a meaning out of something that clearly has no meaning) and turned it into gay sex. It wasn't even hard. Why? Because I was already thinking about two dudes fucking. I find it helps me break up the visions of every girl I meet in the throes of passion.

Everything. The stories that revolve around Norse gods (of which I'm beloved, I'm certain) are about sex. Let's reach for that one (because the obvious ones aren't any fun to me). Thor versus Jormungandr (our silly American computers are no match for badass names). Thor has a giant hammer which, as any feminist will shriek at the highest number of decibels they can manage, is a phallic symbol. It's a stand-in for a penis. The World Serpent is literally a colossal snake. He's a living, breathing symbol of man-meat. Ironically, despite being the bigger dick, Jormungandr is savagely beaten to death by the comparatively smaller God of Thunder. Of course, I could give a shit less if your dick is bigger, mine shoots lightning. These stories, of course, aren't exclusively sex, but as I said it's in everything. Also, that Midgard Serpent arises from the waves of the sea. Sounds suspiciously like the vagina of a woman with "loose morals" (likely Zeboim from the Dragonlance novels) if you ask me, which you did because you're here.

I suppose my point in all of this, is blame women. They're obviously the root of all evil. Otherwise they wouldn't fog up my mind while I'm trying to do everyday things like eat, read, drive, or watch those two guys from Freaks of Cock tag-team an obviously middle-aged woman who happens to wear ponytails and play with teddy bears (is it illegal to run a train on the mentally handicapped? No? Fair enough).

That isn't really my point, it was just an excuse to poke fun at women because they aren't people. Obviously you wouldn't blame the stock market crash on a toaster, you can't blame my infatuation with sex on a sex box.

Seriously, though, women are probably people. At least the ones that don't turn into snarling flesh-eaters after dark. Those ones just happen to be more fun to play with.

Now that I've gotten all of that out of my system, I feel inclined to be the slightest bit serious when I say that human beings, though sexually repressed in public (or, at least, in what the hipsters call "meatspace") are a fairly liberal bunch. Oh, sure, you'll meet the occasional girl who won't do anal, and the rare guy who despises fellatio in all it's clever formats, but for the most part we're alright with sex. I don't feel that we neglect talking about it (although, that's becoming less and less the case) because we're ashamed of what we enjoy. I feel like we keep it amongst ourselves because, if we didn't, we'd never get anything done aside from fucking. Talking about it turns us on, and if you think it makes you uncomfortable to talk about the way a girl will arch her back, knees slightly crooked, toes buried in the sheets, or the way a man will throw back his head like some kind of predator, jaw hanging open, his body in a suspended shudder at the point of climax, if that makes you uncomfortable, then you're probably some kind of robot. And if you are, fuck you. I hate robots.

For a comprehensive list of my fetishes, or any kind of list at all (I adore lists), feel free to keep in touch.

Irrevocably Your Problem,
-S.R.