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Yes, I Want Sex (A Shotgun Rant)
Yes, I Want Sex (A Shotgun Rant)
WARNING: This is a rant, and a shotgun one at that. I consider the rant an art form. If this doesn't apply to you, well, if the shoe doesn't fit, don't wear it, and it isn't my problem if you cram it on your foot.
In my week or so of intensive use of this website, I have been bemused by the number of magazine postings that talk about "more." You know the ones. They range from "do people here just want sex, or do they want more" to "you're evil because you want sex." Or they go "do members think of us as sluts are ladies." Or they go "am I a slut because I did so-and-so." They're usually by women, though there is the occasional one by an omega male who thinks he can gain status by spewing this crap. I'm not interested in the men, though.
This was recently brought home to me. I was kind of bored, and I saw an ad from a woman who described herself as smart and witty and who wanted stimulating conversation. So, playfully, I offered her brownie points if she knew the author of the poem that makes up most of my profile, a poem that most college freshmen have read. I also gave a quote peripherally related to one of her "interests" by one of the wittiest songwriters in history, from whom I got my handle and whom I quote here.
Exactly which medications she was not in compliance with is a matter properly left to her and her psychiatrist, but she sent back a letter that started neutrally enough, but in a few short paragraphs, she was telling me that I had a "negative" attitude because I didn't want "more" and gloating over her imagined superiority.
It is mainly to the women who pull this kind of crap, either in email or in the magazine or in their blobs, that this rant is addressed.
Yes, I do want sex. I am looking for sex. The hunka chunga. The horizontal bop. I'm a lonely guy from out of town, and I want some action. I want a steaming, succulent, gooey, drippy, runny kind of a hole, that...how shall I put this?
You who know who you are. I'd like to break it to you, but I've got plenty of more. So much more that it probably wouldn't even fit in your brain. I can go into any bar or pub in the West, any day of the week, and find half a dozen women who will consider me good marriage material, who will tell me that they will respect me as a person, who will say that they want to be my friend. On one night only a couple of weeks ago, two women cried on me and told me all of their troubles, including things they said they hadn't confided in any other living soul. I wasn't out looking to be used as an emotional toilet; I was just looking to play some pool. One of them started in with the waterworks after five minutes. When I called "bullshit" on one, she said that I was the kind of guy that she wanted to take fishing. But I can get fish at any sushi bar. I want something that tastes like anchovies but isn't.
So, what you consider more is really less. It demands that I cut off or inhibit an important part of what I am, a part that my ancestors have had for a thousand million years, a part without which neither I nor you would even exist. Your more, I can get plenty of, for free. It requires a mastery of realpolitik to avoid having way too much inflicted upon me against my will.
Sure I'll talk to you. I'll even enjoy it. I'm pretty good at that. I'm pretty good at lot of a lot of things, and I'm excellent at some of them. Thinking, teaching, and fucking are my specialties, though not necessarily in that order. Everyone believes that they can do them, but very few actually can. I can do them. I don't care if you don't believe me. I've learned that most people don't believe the truth. As Terry Pratchett said, the truth may be out there, but lies are inside your head.
However, when all is said and done, when it's 3 AM and I've listened to your life story, I want to put my penis in a vagina and wiggle it around until sperm come out the end. And when I want that, don't tell me that you're tired or that you don't feel like what you euphemistically call it.
Just to pick something at random, out of a hat, one of the things that I'm damned good at is Einsteinian Relativity. I love Christoffel symbols and Riemannian manifolds. Relativity is the most beautiful theory that has ever been invented. In those two tensors lie the history of the universe. I'm not even a physicist; I'm a mathematician, but I was a research scientist at a primarily physics research institute for more than a decade.
I'm also really good at teaching. I have a certificate to teach English as a foreign language. I have a talent for making the complex understandable and extracting the qualitative core. So, over the Fourth of July weekend, I gave three talks on Special and General relativity. I lost many people after the first one. Some fought their weariness (it was late) to go to the late one. There was an impromptu Q and A session the next day to tie up the loose ends.
OK, so I lost some people. Whatever. Some people weren't interested or couldn't stay up or whatever. Not my problem. Let them do what they will. Those who lasted got a lot out of it. And there was a pretty hot mathematician there, 20 to 30 years my senior, whom I would have hit on in a nanosecond, but she was monogamous. Well, whatever. It wasn't my problem. It's not part of my world.
In any event, if you're the kind of woman that I'm mostly addressing here, you're either ignorant or malicious. That's not an insult; it's a plain fact.
If you're ignorant, hear this. Let's take the Relativity example. Let's say that you want to smile at a man, and you want him to smile back. However, before he smiles back, he insists that you have to sit down and listen, without interruption, to his lecture on Relativity, for three solid hours. He never considers the possibility that you might need a break. Furthermore, he expects you to tell him how wonderful he is and how special, while it's exactly the same damned lecture you've heard a hundred times before. And you're supposed to kneel down right then and there and perhaps nail your head to a coffee table. And if you don't, he looks at you with the kind of look that Bambi's mother gave before she died, or he treats you like some kind of a war criminal and feels justified in calling you all the names in the book. And if you don't agree with his perfect right to do so, you're even more evil. In extreme cases, he doesn't even have to smile at you, and if you even want him to smile at you, you are guilty of a criminal offense.
Well, that's how it is with us guys and sex. So now you know.
And if you're malicious, well, how the hell dare you? Are you so terribly threatened by the 1% of the places where men are allowed to present themselves as sexual beings rather than robots that you can't continue to live unless you express your pathology in a destructive way? Yes, we know that this is the only way that you can pretend to be worth something. You think that you never take a crap and that your pussy is made of gold. Well, it isn't.
Perhaps you think that you can get status by trying to shame the tiny minority of males who have sussed out your games for what they are. Do you really think that we are so incredibly stupid that we don't notice the utter vitriolic contempt that you spew on us like tomcats with a bladder infection when you do this? And then you have the audacity to tell us that we don't treat you with respect! Do you even have the foggiest idea what the word "respect" means?
For those of you with fingers twitching to tell me how horrible I am, look at the top of this post, where I declare that I consider the rant an art form. If that be difficult, I offer literacy services at a reasonable fee.
If you're not like this, as I said, if the shoe doesn't fit, don't wear it. You know who you are, because you're probably at least smirking now, maybe even chortling.
Unto you, the rare jewels who do not play games nor paint destructive games with a smily face, I say: bend over, baby, 'cause here comes my bullet.
(Edited for wordsmithing.)
9/8/2006 9:26 pm
Someday is today.
10/20/2006 12:21 pm
well can we not have both more and sex?|
10/20/2006 5:57 pm
That is even more.|
5/5/2007 6:47 pm
Speaking of bullets, thanks for the bullet! I stroke it every so often and think of you. |