So there I am last Friday evening, sprawled out in bed with an old "Fuck-Buddy" and as she's bouncing up and down atop my frail naked body, and she's all sweaty and loud and gyrating and executing all mechanics that make up intercourse and I'm lying there thinking to myself - what's the big deal? Seriously?
Now this may apply to the fellas a little more than the gals, but it seems to me that we as a race devote an awful lot of money, time, energy, and emotion into this one basic/primal act. I simply wonder, is it really worth all of this trouble? I mean, what's the big deal anyway? What are you doing? Rolling around between the sheets, getting all sweaty and worked up, for what... maybe twenty minutes tops? I just can't see what all the fuss is about...
Now I know what some of you super-dick-types are thinking, "Gee Geoff, twenty minutes? That's all? Well maybe that's your problem there. Try doing it all night. Maybe then you'll change your tune"- to this I would immediately respond by posing, "Who wants to fuck all night!"? Who are some of you people? Don't you get bored after a half-hour? Shit, as much as it pains me to admit this, I actually belong to a select group of males that actually have to fake an orgasm to end the process. After twenty minutes - tops thirty if she's a knockout - I'm so bored I don't know what to do with myself. I want the insanity over with. Added to this let's not forget as a human being I'm extremely lazy, (sometimes) alcoholic, and I absolutely never exercise. To demand twenty minutes of pumping and sweating from me is like asking most to Jog from Hollywood to Santa Monica... just not happening.
Now at the same time there is a flipside to the coin. I can see enjoying endless hours of pelvis bumping if the partner is someone truly special. But this of course means dropping ‘The L Bomb': Love. And I don't mean telling your partner you love them just to get into the sack... I'm talking about the real thing. If the two bedmates are truly in love and the act of sex becomes a way of sharing something special together - where the respected partners know every inch of one another and love every inch at the same time - this kind of fireplace-fucking we only see on television or read about in novels, I can dig that. Matter of fact, someday in the far future when I grow up, I actually wouldn't mind having some of that. But for now I live on planet earth (as do most of you) and I really just don't get it... fucking that is - love's a whole other ballgame I'm hardly qualified to play.
Now for those of you that fall into the category I detailed in the previous paragraph, read no further. You've met your perfect match. Now the challenge comes in keeping it... and truth be told, I'm sure after a decade with the same person you wouldn't mind a few mindless fuck-fests with a stranger. But for the rest of us, take a moment and try to see my point for a moment.
To fully understand where I come from, one must put themselves in my demographic: 21-28 year-olds living in a major American metropolis... more specifically Los Angeles, CA. Now I don't know about the night scene in "Anytown, Idaho", but here in the City of Angels, sex being sold everywhere. From the countless nightclubs on Sunset to the billboards on every street to the commercials being shot in the valley ready to beam out to televisions all across the country, sex is being sold. Drive the right car get the girl. Wear the right dress get the guy. It's everywhere you look - especially within the walls of the nightclubs. It's inside the nightclubs where one gets a reality-check as to just how important sex has become in American Culture... and what kind of sex we're looking for. Be realistic, people aren't going to these clubs to meet their future husband/wife. These sin factories are not designed with that intention in mind. The music is way too loud to carry on conversation - which I've been told is essential in getting to know another person - the dancing that goes on (grinding) is hardly the slow-dances we grew up on in our High School dances... it's all one big sweaty meat factory where the intended result is securing a one-night-fling. Money is spent. Lies are told. Women dress in what appears to be the most uncomfortable clothes known to human-kind, all in the hopes to catch a lay.
Now some of you can contend to me that these clubs are designed to have fun and meet new people. But couldn't you think of better places to meet someone? How about a Starbucks? At least there no one is drunk, conversation can be had, and one could get to know someone much easier. There's no romance in these dance clubs. You don't see Tom Hanks meeting Meg Ryan in a place called Secrets over mixed-drinks dancing to House Music... you know why? Because true love isn't birthed in a nightclub... only sex. And shitty sex to boot.
That said, let's take a look at your average one-nighter that may take place in a Los Angeles nightclub (from a male douche-bag's point of view):
It's Friday night and our Everyman just got off of work. He deposits his meager check into the bank and calls up His Bro's. Together he and his posse o' douche-bag's hit the town. After paying 20 bucks at the door of a B-Grade nightclub they hit the bar and dish out 10 bucks a pop for a drink. After two drinks they make their way out to the floor to "scope out the chicks". After a few drinks, our everyman douche-fag meets a twentysomething club-slut and starts "spitting game". After buying club-slut three drinks to get her loose enough to find our everyman interesting, they start to get physical with one another. During the get to know you phase of the evening, our everyman douche-fag proceeds to dish-out random tall-tales in the hopes the girl will like him more. (This of course is the biggest flaw of the one nighter, starting with lies. Doing this of course starts the whole relationship off of dishonesty and pretty much negates the hopes of a meaningful relationship thereafter). Finally after all the money-spending and two-stepping our everyman-douche-bag isget's lucky and brings the girl back to his studio apartment. Maybe these two share a bottle of Yellowtail, maybe they don't, bottom-line, they end up in the bedroom and do their business. I speculate the whole show is over and done-with inside ten minutes.
So what's the overall picture? Our everyman spends hundreds of dollars on clothes, entrance, and booze. He builds the entire relationship with random club-slut on lies, wastes hours of time pretending to care about her philosophies regarding the dream patterns of felines - All of this to finally get her in bed for twenty minutes of passionless sloppy sex. And I ask you reader, is it really worth it?
Tomorrow morning our everyman and our club-slut are going to wake up uncomfortable, regretting every choice they made the night before, and both of them will most likely want nothing more than to be apart from one another. Don't you think both of our characters would have been better off staying home the night before? Maybe catching a rerun of Lost on DVD? It certainly would have been a cheaper night. Moreover, wouldn't maybe our two lovers have been better off if they had met at a Coffee shop on a Sunday morning? A situation where they might have accidently discovered they both had something in common? Who knows, maybe sparks could have flown! Maybe a real love could have been formed. Instead, they met under dirty circumstances and cheapened the entire process in less than 10 hours. Why? They just wanted to get laid.
How could two people form a real relationship off of a one-night stand? Really? Think of your last stand (if you've had one). How uncomfortable was it at the end? That's always the roughest spot for me... and I never know what to say to the girl to mellow out the uncomfortable tension in the air. It's one hell of a paradox when you think about it: here we were moments ago, sharing the most intimate of acts two people can share, and when it's all said and done we don't have word-one to say to one another - There's not a sarcastic joke on the planet that will help negate that fact.
Sure I can have a smoke, everyone does... it's almost expected. Regardless of my options, the uncomfortable feeling I encounter after fucking is so overwhelming, I hardly can concern myself with "what's the right thing to say". The deed has been done and all I want is to put my pants on... problem is, they're on the other side of the room! If the girl was someone I loved it wouldn't be a problem. But it's funny... after laying out a one-nighter - sharing what should be the most intimate acts known to man... I find myself too uncomfortable to trek four paces across the room in the nude to fetch my discarded clothing... this doesn't make any sense! And it's with that discomfort I feel while doing the naked-shuffle looking for my pants that affirms whatever sex I just had with this girl was for the lack of a better word - wrong.
Sure bumping pelvises is fun. It would be irresponsible for me to take away from how great sex can be. But that's only when it's actually going on. To me, the X amount of time one actually spends fucking is hardly worth all the effort it takes before hand, and all the discomfort one feels afterward. You realize sex, for most people, is only truly important when they're not having it. Once the dance is over however, all you want is for it to end.
Or at least I do.
I realized after last Friday - despite it never really being that important to me in the past - that sex, fucking, hooking up, or whatever you want to call it is really no big deal. Personally, and I've stated this before in a previous entry "I'm a Johnny Looking for his June", I'd be a much happier unit spending a night with a fine six-pack, a hearty meal, and a good book. If at the end of the night I still have this urge to fulfill some sort of sexual desire - I can easily grease up lefty and do what I like to call "bate the master"...
It's fast, easy, and completely disease free. No awkward feeling. The wallet stays heavy. And if I ask Lefty to fetch me a beer, I'll never have to worry about back-talk.
As far as pursuing women is concerned, I'm just going to throw it up to fate. As of right now, I can just barely take care of myself. The last thing this young scribe needs is to be put in a position where he'll have to (god-forbid) put someone else ahead of himself. Now that's not to say I'm not looking for a mate for the future. I'm just not going to be looking in a nightclub. And if and when I do meet that young gal, sex will be one of the latter things on my mind.
I think if we all thought this way, the world would be a easier, happier, and cheaper place to live.
Without a real strong way to end this piece I simply shut off my inner monologue and close with a bow and a period.