|
© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
|
The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, fruitcup.
Birds Do It, Bees Do It 14-Nov-2004 7:09 a.m.
Someone who adores me and who I live to be near told me this morning, "You are the French in my toast." Sweet barracudas, I am a lucky girl. You have no idea.
So, this cold has transmuted into an utterly painful experience of the head. My sinuses are now a glue factory, open for business. People are piling in with their Dixie cups and empty Ragu jars, all in the name of free glue. My temples are sore to the slightest touch and I believe I have a semi-permanent (like the hair dye!) look on my face that resembles someone who suffers greatly but knows not why. All that, and I feel barfy too.
I feel like talking about sex. Not in a sexy way, perv. I feel like talking about what has become of sex in our all-sexed-up-with-nowhere-to-go, unoriginal, youth-obsessed, character-deficient society. Shall we? I think it sounds like a lovely idea. I'm half-asleep and on the verge of puking, so this should be interesting.
I love sex. I will begin by stating that truth. I am a passionate person and quite enjoy expressing myself sexually with someone I love who loves me back. You gotta love me back—those are the rules. I've had sex with the wishy-washy type, and it's just not my cup of chamomile. "I think I love you..." Sit and twirl, I say. Well, I wish I had said that instead of spending months trying to get them to love me back. Believe me, that doesn't work. Some people really do just want to have sex with you. Every time they see you. And never even go to a movie with you because they would rather stay home and get you naked. Oh, I think I sense some old bitterness surfacing. The acrid stench of unrequited love. Speaking of surfacing, someone looked up loo surfacing on Google and found my site. I am still enjoying that.
For me, sex is about love. To have sex with someone I don't love would be lacking as all hell. I am not the sort of person who can comfortably have casual sex with someone. I tried that twice, and one of the times was OK because I had actually had a relationship with that person years back when we were in junior high, but still it was a fairly empty experience. The other time with that other person was just glacial, and left me wishing for a fat eraser. I guess I am just too sensitive to swing from tree to tree, all carefree and ready to giggle about it with friends over coffee. For starters, I don't giggle. I fucking cackle. I have to love and be loved, and there has to be more where that came from, and you have to like me as a person and I have to like you back, and you gotta tell me what you're feeling 'cause I can't read your mind, and you have to listen when I tell you what's in my heart. What I'm trying to say is I only want to have sex with someone who thinks I'm the French in their toast, and someone who is the French in my toast as well.
I can't be the only person who thinks porn is about as sexy as ear wax. The way they kiss in those films is enough to nauseate me for a good, long day or two. It's just all very unpleasant-looking, and forced. And everything starts to look so...smelly. Am I alone on this? I'm not judging you if that's your thing. Enjoy while you still have teeth, I say. It's just not my thing. After looking at that crap I feel gloomy and sordid.
I remember a few years back when everywhere you looked or turned your ear, there was something about Britney Spears or Justin Timberlake. I guess not much has changed. (What I am finding frightening at the moment is that the spellchecker didn't bat an eye at the word Timberlake. It wigged out over the word Britney, but left Timberlake alone. Help.) Back then it was as if the entire world wanted to crawl into bed with these little flits and have their way with them, even though they were practically still kids. I guess it's possible I was the only person to notice this, but I doubt it; I hope I wasn't. The global masturbation that seemed to be taking place with these two chippies' photographs taped to the wall just freaked me all kinds of out. And it's happening now with the Olsen twins, who we all seem to talk about like they're our fucking neighbours. There was a website I heard about where these winners were counting down the days until the girls' eighteenth birthday. It's creepy, I tell you. Why do we even know who these people are? We're not talking about great talent here (forgive me). And more importantly, why are some people obsessing over having sex with these people?
You would think by now people would be immune to the human body. We are bombarded with images of body parts everywhere we go, from the midriffs of little eight-year-old girls whose mothers let them dress like hookers, to the billboards sporting lustful glances from sinewy, half-naked men trying to sell you some crap you don't need, or waiflike, nearly naked women attempting to sell you the same useless stuff. Men, women, and even children, flaunting all their millimeters. It's nuts. Is that all we are—our bodies?
Even the idea of beauty has changed. Skin is the new beauty; as long as you're showing more than you need to show at all times, you're hot. Beauty is no longer subjective. Remember the old slogan "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder"? It's dead. You will find beauty where you are told to find it by the media, and not a drop outside that perimeter. Remember, if you think for yourself, you might not be popular at parties.
A few months ago waiting in line at the market, a young girl with her mother was attracting a great deal of attention. She was not more than thirteen or fourteen and seemed oblivious to the greedy eyes of the onlookers. A gray-haired man, probably in his fifties, was enticed by something about this girl. I could not tell you what it was, as she was just your average cute young girl, and she was not almost naked. He craned his neck to keep an eye on the girl. Other men seemed to see whatever it was the gray-haired man was seeing, and craned their necks accordingly. And then I noticed a butch woman with the same eager look on her face, intently watching the girl. Guess what? Children are not sex objects. It might be high time to think for yourself and with all your wits about you, for the love of something sacred.
Some people are so concerned with being deemed shag-worthy that it overrides other more important aspects of who they are. How often do you hear people say things like "I want to lose ten pounds" or "I need to shape up my thighs" or "I gotta get back to running every morning"? When was the last time you heard someone say "I want to be a better person"? You won't hear the latter much, if at all, because it's not about attracting sex partners. And don't tell me everyone who exercises and loses weight does so for health reasons. Some do, yes. But the majority of people flocking to gyms and hitting the pavement with their overpriced running shoes are doing so to be accepted in this judgmental, model-humping society, and to solidify their ranking in the cosmic shagfest. That and the idea that they might never die. Crawl into people's heads, you'll see I'm not just whistling Dixie or some other chipper tune.
So, what happened to sex? Sex has become a commodity, and people all over the world have stopped thinking their own thoughts. Instead, they wander around like horny zombies who lack a destination. I'm not even sure these folks know what they like or dislike anymore. They are so busy being spoon-fed their ideals that they haven't the time to form thoughts, let alone opinions.
And sex has become something to use for liberation, but from what I am unsure. Aren't most adults free to have sex and enjoy it? Having sex is something just about anyone can do. It doesn't take talent. It does not make you special or interesting. Some people seem to be eliminating the taboo of sex by shoving it out there to center stage; talking about it constantly, sharing with you their sexual escapades, detail by detail. Sometimes even providing you with photographs or line drawings. Thanks! But for me, that just washes away some of the mystery of sex. In my world, sex is mysterious and beautiful, and I think it's more interesting when people don't tell you the details of their sex lives. But that's just me. I figure if I'm not having sex with you, it's really none of my business.
I imagine a day when everyone finally realizes that sex, lovely as it is, is not everything. It does not save relationships, solve problems, cure illnesses, or stop disasters. It has been done countless times and no amount of doing it will ever make a person fascinating. There are other things to ponder and other things to do. Sadly, I think many people haven't been let in on that secret. Everything in moderation, and with grown, consenting adults, please.
I'm just sitting here with an Olba's natural inhaler stuffed up my nose. I better answer the door—I think the stripper's here.
Linda
|
|
