I woke up this morning to find “Say no to fur” activists picketing my tongue again. Now, I’m lucky, I don’t usually get hangovers but this day was different. This was “Revenge of the Hangovers part IV- The return of The Bongo Hammer.” This was more painful than watching Miami Vice re-runs on satellite TV. (I liked that show as a kid- what drugs was I on?)

So, I’m lying there, looking at the ceiling with a bored and slightly pained expression. A position I’m sure women will be able to empathise with more than guys. I thought to myself, why do we do it? Why do guys insist on torturing themselves like this. Apart from first year University you hardly ever see women do it.

I have, being highly qualified to answer this question (I’m a guy), come up with a couple of answers. Firstly, it’s guilt. We love women dearly. They think it’s lust but they don’t understand that we just love differently. We see the women we love agonize over everything. Clothes, make-up, hair, relationships and the thickness of their eyebrows. Things we barely give a passing thought to, and we want to understand why they can’t be as blissfully happy as we are in our purple pants, orange shoes and green, yellow and red striped shirt.

So we tried. We tried caring. We tried worrying. We shaved that bit where our eyebrows met. We bought the hair gel. We asked ourselves deep meaningful questions about our relationships (flowers or chocolate on Valentines Day?). We tried to match our wardrobe up. Some of us even may have vaguely succeeded. But we didn’t care, not really.

So we picked up copies of Femnopolitan. We read about the ‘new woman’. We read about power dressing. We read your strange relationship quizzes. And we still were in the dark. Then we read about clitori, (is that the correct plural, I’ve never had to use the plural before) g-spots and multiple orgasms and we said: “Hey! Here is something we can care about!”

And we tried. We really did. We read books like “Ode to The Joy of Sex (sexy poetry for the moments before…), did special tongue exercises (like shouting for the bokke at the last world cup), recited boring facts in our head to stay away the inevitable orgasm until we became perfectly prepared game-show contestants, went to tantric sex classes and even stayed awake when no-one got naked in the first twenty minutes.

Some of us went to the torturous extreme of watching a great many lesbian pornographic movies to pick up tips. No stone was left unturned.

And apart from the set of steak-knives we won on the game-show, we’re really have nothing to show for it. After all this effort, after all this trouble, we seemed to have failed. Reading Femnopolitan just proves it. New orgasms are being found, new spots to push, and we’re still bumbling around with the first ones hoping she’ll fake it soon before lockjaw sets in.

We need a drink. Correction. We need drinks. Lots of them. We’re afraid to go back into the bedroom. If we’re just a little drunk we can have the courage to try again. If we’re completely drunk we won’t be able to even consider sex, since finding our own genitals is usually a problem, let alone hers.

Go out and drink guys. You were there, you tried. You pushed it to the limit and beyond. Have a drink, you deserve it.


One Response to “98.12.14 Modern Sex”

  1. Xenina Says:

    Hahahahahaha! Great writing. 😀

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