A Little Jeopardy With Your Sex?
I’ll tell you a little story… I was having sex with someone. I was on top—not to strike those cinematic poses a la Basic Instinct, mind you, but simply because it was the optimal viewing position for Jeopardy. My partner, a British bloke who had a polite way of saying everything, was down below making that strange sex face. You know, that oddly intense expression—eyes closed, mouth slightly agape to allow the throaty sounds to escape. I answered a Jeopardy question aloud (correctly, I might add), to which he said, “Pardon?” (Very polite, as I said) wondering why I would be saying, “Who is Bach?” amidst coitus.
“Oh, Jeopardy,” I said, nodding to the TV, which he apparently forgot was on.
His sex-face vanished. A scolding expression took its place. “You’re watching Jeopardy?” Despite my protests and my pleas to allow me to continue to final jeopardy, he turned it off. And though that encounter came to a satisfactory end, he asked me over coffee several days later in a hushed voice, “Am I not good in bed?”
“You’re fine,” I said, because—let’s face it—everyone is, more or less, fine in bed. There’s not much to it, really. A little in and out, up and down, some lubricant. This isn’t rocket science. It’s sex.
“It’s just that… well you were…” He cleared his throat. “Watching Jeopardy.”
Sex Does Not Turn Off the Brain
Now, I’ll explain to you the same thing I explained to him: It doesn’t take all my brainpower to have sex. I can, in fact, enjoy sex and enjoy Jeopardy simultaneously. I can jog whilst thinking, ride a bike and solve a math equation in my head. I can even masturbate and read a book at the same time. Shocking! I know!
And though I’m not a man, I suspect the same thing of them. They may look intense, their sex-faces contorted somewhere between “I’m studying” and “I’m constipated.” They may make a lot of grunting sounds, but I believe they’re capable of thinking about the next car they’re going to buy or that raise they want at work while they’re in the throes—just like women.
We can do this, because sex is just mechanics. Just like jogging or dancing, sex is a set of motions and muscles you learn to execute and use in a particular way. After the initial moment of contact, the rest of the act is just a bunch of pumping and rocking, maybe some licking or tickling—nothing that requires all your mental powers.
The Ego and Fantasy
And though all of this seems completely logical, the response to this story is always the same—an uncomfortable laugh and a mild scolding. “He must have felt so bad.”
“Because I didn’t pretend that he was all-consuming?”
Yes? Really? I should pretend that every bit of my mental and physical strength is utterly occupied by some rocking motions just so he can believe that his penis is a magical wand that has entranced my very being with its virility? “I have unsheathed the enchanted sword of delight—quiver, woman!” She swoons…
Though I’m sure all the men are saying… “Duh… yes,” I ask you—wouldn’t you love a girl who gave you a ride while you watched the football game, gave you head while you read the paper? Judging by how few of you go down (and even fewer that do it well), you’re not really “givers.” I’d think that you’d be happy to find a girl who could multi-task and/or accept your multitasking.
Lie to Me, Baby… Or Get Out
Once again… I’m just wrong. Evidently, everyone would rather invest in the performance of sex rather than the reality of it. If we weren’t married to the lie, women wouldn’t cry when told that they actually were fat after asking repeatedly, and my British fella wouldn’t have suffered a lapse in confidence after the Jeopardy incident. Men wouldn’t scoff at the thought of using sex toys during the act. (“What do you mean my wand isn’t enough?” they whimper). And we’d all stop shaving our pubes off in an effort to emulate porn stars.
We want to believe we’re sexy and, apparently, we rely on each other to preserve the delusion. But… It’s just sex, and the reality of it is that you look about as sexy as two dogs going at it. I suspect you already know this, else you’d probably take a picture or two of yourself having sex—lights on, everything hanging out. In fact, if you Google “real people having sex” you’ll find about two images that are really candid pictures of people having sex… and they’re not sexy, not anywhere near cinematic. They’re very reminiscent of two dogs, slightly bored and guilty, greasy with sweat and jiggling everywhere.
If dogs can’t be fully mentally engaged in it… why should we expect more from an animal with 50 times the mental power? And though this is totally reasonable, we’re still horribly offended when someone steps outside of the sexual theater and takes off that sex-face. “How dare you acknowledge that sex isn’t that great,” or rather, “Sex with me isn’t that great.” It’s not you. It’s not any of us. It’s just sex—It’s not that great—Scratch that. It’s not a totally overwhelming, all-consuming activity that renders participants void of all thought, delivering them purely into a physical ecstasy.
It doesn’t make us dumb.
It doesn’t actually consume us.
It really is just sex.
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