It’s been a long time since I wrote about a topic that interests me more than anything else — sex. I’ll sound cocky, (the pun is not intended) if I brag about where I have been to and what I have been through just so I could partake the bliss of sex. But for the sake of expressing and celebrating this ambrosia by the gods which unfortunately is deprived from them, let me indulge, even for a few brief paragraphs, in the breath-taking panorama of this aspect of my life. If there’s one thing that has remained faithful in providing me consistent pleasure and pain, it’s sex.
I wake up everyday looking forward to satisfying my carnal fantasies, reading books and thinking about how it would feel having sex with the author (and I do not give a damn whether it’s the old man Tolstoy who declared he’s God’s elder brother or Virginia Woolf inside a room of her own), riding the train and thinking about what expletives that good-looking commuter will shout while we’re having sex, waiting for the elevator and contemplating on the possible acrobatics I could perform with the person standing right next to me, and sometimes even thinking of having sex while actually having sex.
I am aware that this affliction, if one can aptly call it as such, is perfectly normal. Only that most people I know do not have the courage to talk about it much less write about it. While writing this is cathartic in a way, surprisingly, writing about sex also keeps me from thinking about sex, at least not the acts and the people involved in these acts. This, I believe, is the height of my personal irony.
Sex is neither a game where the bird with the best-looking and most colorful plumage wins nor is it a competition where the frog with the loudest croak, the rhino with the biggest horn, or the seal with the most blubber controls the harem. It is an intellectual game where the one who makes use of his neurons to their full capacity gets the spoils of the war.
The good-looking commuter inside the train may attract peering eyes, but after a nighter (that’s how a prominent professor who is my friend calls it), it’s still the participant who is good at language that determines the extent of carnage and the number of succeeding performances; although in my case, repeat performances are rather rare as I see to it that every actor in my play is unique for a one-night-only and a standing-room-only gala performance.
I am not particularly interested in the entire theatrics of intercourse, or coitus as I jokingly call it. What I am more keen on are the intro and extro. How it begins, with all the courtship involved, and the conversations that take place after the two bodies become one. It’s also worth mentioning the different gamut of emotions involved. Although it is tempting to experiment with feelings, I try to keep myself on a safe distance so that the conversations that occur after it will not complicate both participants’ situations. I usually add a bit of sweetness so that nobody feels used but not too sweet as to cause the other party to cling on my words and stalk me a month after. Just like in anything that we do, moderation is the key ingredient.