Sex is overrated.
Everyone, more or less, loves it. If it is not sacred, it’s a mindfuck. If it’s not about passion, it’s about not giving a fuck. If it’s not only the greatest sport to ever exist among mankind, it is at least reminiscent of televised love. Sex between and within the genders is glamorized to be the ultimate pinafore of human existence. And by pinafore, I mean get a new apron.
More coherently, sex is as mechanistic as it is intrinsic. See for example 1) hammering a nail into a wall and/or 2) eating a banana. These simple machine actions trigger images into every pervert’s mind, starting as early as the age of 8. Sex, as an act in a passive-aggressive play, is a dance hall motion of triumphant thrusts, prolonged by one-sided or mutually determined endurance.
“Should I get a condom?” the surveyor of sexual prowess might be so bold and rational to ask. Though some are only in it for the onset of kisses and potential fondling of fine back hair, others have goals in mind and steps to follow. Whether the steps involve buying Plan B from the pharmacy the following day can be settled by settling on a latex glove ribbed for your pleasure.
Ribbed, lubricated or studded with glitter, the kind of condom hardly matters. Either way, reaching the height of eye-rolling pleasure is often only guaranteed for one. Whether that guarantee is blessed upon the wearer of the glove or not depends on the genitalia involved and the pheromones emanating between them.
Pouring our hearts out late one night, a macho friend pointed out that “men are sexually promiscuous, but women are emotionally promiscuous.” Though each sex manifests vulnerability through sexual exploits or emotional attachments, it seems as though each sex must choose one or the other.
Hardwired to seek pleasure where we may find it, like in our very own backyards, we seek to find such pleasure in each other. Though both sexes are capable of separating sexual from emotional affection much like androids, there is human instinct, socially constructed or not, to consider.
Think Vagina Monologues. If you’ve never seen one of our campus adaptations, let me share one monologue that bellows feminine truth like a vagina truly would. That is, sex is a pleasure to master, not one to dabble in. Mastering techniques and convulsions takes time and dedication; sex is generally played like any other game, where men chase a ball while women cheer along the sidelines.
Too far? Check maybe. One vagina monologue that has haunted early morning showers and sleepless dreams is one of a woman who had her first orgasm at the age of 70. Borne into a traditional American marriage of major hysteria and baking, the caricatured woman bore two children without having understood (or experienced, really) the concept of a “climax.”
All those wasted years. Though she had more important things to worry about than weighing the fairness of sexual intercourse, like perhaps worrying about raising her children, sex can also be underrated. In the case of Mrs. Stepford, fulfilling her role as the perfect mother and wife distracted her from fulfilling something else — herself.
A game in which finishing first isn’t quite the goal, it’s still a line that many don’t think much about when crossing. With assumptions made on both ends — one thinking that the other isn’t really enjoying it, the other thinking the one won’t fall asleep right after — sex is best played with open communication and reliable partnership.
Not to write an addendum to the news section’s current series on hooking up, allow me to further explain myself, since I often do a poor job of “having a point.” I have two conflicting ones, as per usual column.
First, the act of sex is overrated because its pleasures aren’t as easy as they seem to come to most men. And also, sex can be underrated when the losing lovers give up on finishing what they may (or may not have) started.
I’m not much of a sexual deviant — mostly because the act of seduction induces laughing ticks and/or gag reflexes — but I do like skipping to the good parts. Stuck in a rut of escaping my own head to fill it with beautiful lies, as told by the men (and occasional women) who pleasure my bookshelf, a wise woman once told me that talking is the most innocent kind of foreplay.
The most innocent and most captivating for narcissistic nerds and hysterical types such as myself. If conversation is an art, seduction belies the muse in question. And if conversation moves from the foreplay of art to shared realms of tongue in cheek, then maybe something more than just a reminiscence of love can exist in sex. Maybe then, sex could be just perfect.
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