To many, much like when Eve plucked the forbidden fruit off the tree of knowledge, my indulgence of the scarlet delight that is the Sex on Tuesday column has been perceived as a self-inflicted one-way ticket to eternal damnation.
I, however, subscribe to the Genesis 3:12 explanation for the fall of man: Adam’s unwillingness to recognize his own fault. The internet outrage machine that rears its head when I write relies on the very same stigmas that I wish to dismantle about openly discussing sex.
I should be able to explore my fascination with queefs, public sex and oviposition (which is associated with a fetish of an alien appendage laying eggs inside you) without being inundated with abuse presuming I’m constantly disappointing my parents.
Nevertheless, I am loathe to pin the blame solely on the people who attack writers of obscene content. After all, the attackers are only the symptoms, not the disease. U.S. society exists in a continual double-standard. Our current president can joke about his sexual attraction to his daughter with no consequence. Yet, when I, a queer woman of color, dip my toes into sexual discussions, I am flooded with patronizing remarks about my now nonexistent career prospects.
What I hope for is more people to write about sex. That those who write about sex can do so without having to devote their lives to sexual education or the sex industry. A willingness to explore or talk about sex should not color people’s lives.
I’ve found that, while the human mind is set up to comprehend infinite complexities, many refuse to overcome their socially enforced belief that obscene content primarily serves the purpose of creating shock value. In actuality, it can also provide a medium that helps people broaden their perceptions of sex and identity in general.
For instance, the consequence of my younger self’s sexual inquisitiveness was shoving common household items up my holes. I wrote about this experience in an attempt to open the conversation, but discussion quickly devolved to simply shouting pedophilia. It was still somehow unfathomable that there is a large difference between sexualizing children and recognizing that kids have and do act on sexual curiosities.
Additions to my eclectic erotic collections will no longer be curated by The Daily Californian. The gallery must be cleared for another person’s experiences.
I have aroused many, whether with repulsion or titillation, by the vulgar and frequently bizarre pieces of art in my mind’s museum. Though my 15 minutes of fame are up, my fascination with new sexual media only continues to evolve.
Creating art has only further stirred within me visions of broad, thick strokes of pegging and the Oakland sex parties which evoke the same divinity as Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling: images desperately begging to reach fruition.
Even Leonardo da Vinci, the quintessential “Renaissance Man,” has dabbled in obscenity, as epitomized by his crude drawings of cocks and his lover Salai’s anus in one of his many sketchbooks. We don’t remember him solely as a dick-doodler but as an inventor, an architect and other roles far and in between.
While I’ll never reach the same level of esteem as my fellow pervert Leonardo has, at the very least, my writings will be immortalized thanks to the strongest preservative in the world: the internet. I’ll become my own kind of Renaissance man.
As I step back from this still-drying canvas, I’ll make sure to look out for your art, too.