M |
And, for me, sexual validation doesn't take very much. A chance momentary connection with a complete stranger across a room is the sort of thing that can haunt me for days. It's not as tangible as a kiss or sex, but in my mind I can go through a hypothetical lifetime with anyone, without expending any effort, and I can switch people off or morph them into others at whim. It's amusing to think that my imagination may well be hindering my evolutionary procreative mandate.
That said, I have to admit that I very much enjoy sex and I do seek intimacy. It isn't necessary for my happiness, and I don't put forth much effort into "getting some," but it is a delicious treat when it's available. When it's fresh and new, it's always much better than when it becomes a chore. And in relationships, it invariably becomes a chore, even an ordeal. For this and the other reasons just mentioned, I have deliberately avoided falling into relationship mode with anyone in recent years. The sex I've had has retained, for the most part, the Christmas-morning quality of discovery. I haven't had sex with any one person very often. The usual pattern is that my new sexual partner expresses bitterness at my indifference and inattention, swears me off, and later goes on to become an important and loyal friend. And this loyalty is mutual. I've come to believe that for me, sex is a social sacrament, a rite of passage to social intimacy and loyalty. This accounts nicely for the fact that I'm invariably drawn to women who strike me as socially powerful.
When a man has sex with a woman, he's been granted permission to invade her body, to take possession of her biology. It's not something a woman should do casually or with just anyone. Back in the day, the certain result of sex was pregnancy, and the woman wanted to be damn sure the man would be around to help out during many future years of child rearing. On a basic biological level, then, sex for a woman is a contract as well as an act. It creates an intense emotional bond and an expectation of future relations. These are evolutionary realities; the women who viewed sex with a casual attitude found themselves burdened with children they had difficulty raising and whose chances of survival were jeopardized. The genes of the survivors, the women who understood the social importance of the sex act, are present in all of us today.
Of course, today we have things like contraception that can act, in our rational minds at least, to lessen the contractualness of sex for both parties. I'm sure, however, that on a deep subsconscious and emotional level, sex carries the same contractualness it always did.
For me, I've decided, sex is a means to a social intimacy that persists long after there is no more sex. With the act of sex, you see, the contract has been signed. Things are different between two people after they have sex. They can never go back. The connection they have can be made into a powerful link in a social network.
This is not to say that it's inconceivable that I might one day stop this social nonsense and settle into a life of monogamy. I have occasionally strong romantic inclinations (to this day) that work at cross-purposes to my polygamous pro-social behaviours. But it takes a truly remarkable person to turn me into a romantic.
W |
The day was cold, the sort requiring a jacket. I wasn't out and about too much. I went to UVA's Cocke Hall at one point, mainly to fix some corrupted images in this website (the result of aborted FTP attempts with Fetch 3.01).
Deya had made a whole bunch of lasagna yesterday, and I was eating some when Kelly called inviting me out for dinner. I suggested we go out for drinks instead.
Matthew was watching the big baseball game, but of course I wanted to watch something else, and a videotape of the movie Donnie Brasco was lying around. Matthew arranged it so the movie would play on his big television and we'd hear its audio while the game would play silently from Monster Boy's television. It was sort of like having a split screen teevee, and about as distracting as trying to read your mail amidst the animated advertisements at Hotmail.com.
The little kitten named Nicholas has become a stinky little monster: he/she appears to have developed a problem with gas. And nothing smells quite as foul as a cat with gas. There's evidently a Thermodynamic compensation that cats must pay the universe in order to maintain their cuteness and cleanliness, and that compensation comes out of their assholes in the form of the most disgusting feces of any kind on Planet Earth.
Luckily, I'd been smoking an enormous -if incompetently hand-rolled (by me)- American Spirit Pow-Wow blend cigarette, and its rich blend of herbs and tobacco had acted to mask the kitten's fumes before Kelly arrived.
A |
Get a sense of what I was like exactly eight years ago and one year ago today.