Somebody once told me that I overrate sex, that I am too caught up within its crafty, labyrinthine path that one day I’d wake up totally enmeshed in and unable to escape from this game I all too enjoy playing. I laughed at the person giving me the remark, disregarding his comment as something at the height of naïveté. Sex moderates itself and the idea of being ‘oversexed’ is a fallacy. Sex operates within the bounds of diminishing marginal utility; inevitably one will get tired of it. And besides, I reason, that I am not getting any younger, the natural course of things is to slowdown. And thirty, forty years from now I shall altogether lose interest in it.
But he went on by saying that I’ve redefined moderation to a point that it becomes unrecognizable and unbelievable. My appetite for sex, he observed, is beyond compare. It’s as if I’ve been starved of it for years and reintroduced to it; I’ve transformed myself into a maniac who needs sex like one needs air and water to survive. I gave him a meaningful wink that caused him to almost choke in the oxygen he was inspiring. “Spare me,” he emphatically declared.
“And are you sure you’ll live for thirty or more years?” He jokingly asked.
“Well, I only intend to live until in my fifties. I do not dream of growing too old to be unable to perform well in bed,” I sarcastically answered.
“That is if you reach that age without having contracted syphilis, chlamydia, gonorrhea, or God forbids, HIV,” he finally said.
I looked straight to his eyes and asked, “What do you want me to do? Stop doing it and become an asexual salmonella like you?”
“What I mean is moderation. I do not have to define what moderation means in order for you to understand it. I have complete trust in your intelligence and ability to comprehend.” He paused, “And you’re all too aware that you are over-doing it.”
I was silent for more than a minute, sipped my cup of lukewarm cappuccino, and before me came a surge of countless images of the faces of people I had sex or made love with (as the two are totally different ideas and acts). I confused one from the other, forgot when I had the most unforgettable, the best, or when I did it for the first time. Sex has become too cheap and easy. And it was I and my almost insatiable thirst for it that made it too cheap and easy.
It’s as if my entire existence rests on this platform whose sole purpose is to seek pleasure. Sex ceased to be an emotional experience for me, and I do not remember whether it ever was an emotional experience shared with another person. What I know is that it is an exercise that dissipates bodily heat, facilitates an exchange of bodily fluids, and mediates the union of emptiness contained within equally empty bodies. But how pleasurable this banality is.