From SP: How the destructive nature of sex takes a hatchet to the fairytale
I want to talk about the destructive nature of sexuality, but I’m scared. It’s not that I’m embarrassed by the topic; it’s that sexuality is no single thing to me. It’s a conglomerate of ideas that fit uncomfortably into one another; and mold in and out of each other, and alter to challenge and accommodate one another. I’m also scared to talk about it because I’d be talking about soo much of my whole self. So here’s what I thought we’d do: a Freudian thought-association exercise. Keep a tally of how many concepts coexist to form sexuality—and all the dark(est) places they’ve led us. I’ll start.
Loneliness comes first. I’m referring to the silent drive home, how cold empty beds are when you get in, and how I sit on my couch until 4 a.m., hoping to postpone it. I’m referring to looking at all the cars with one passenger. I’m referring to that violent angry clawing feeling you get in your gut when it hits—loneliness and then lust, mixed and confused, so I can never really tell one from the other. In my head, I hear T.S. Eliot whispering again and again mixing memory and desire; mixing memory and desire; mixing memory and desire. I’m drinking my tea, thinking about how heavy V’s hair is. Her skin glowing. About the feel of her breasts in my palm. For the life of me, I can’t remember the gravitational variations when someone’s in my bed—how weights shifts and bodies are amended and time ebbs and flows in between conversations and panting and small laughs.
the tally: coming home alone + loneliness + lust + memories of past experiences
My friend is struggling. He places a card table between us, two glasses, a bottle of rum, a bottle of coke. Half an hour passes. With menacing eyes, he laughs, “Can you believe her! Her … what do you even call it? Arghhh.” His voice turns into a sinister laugh, then a slow whine, finally a sigh. He looks deep into his glass, gulps what’s left, looks up at me. “Keep up.” I stumble to find a pen and notebook: forgive we who are lost. we who are lonely. we who are unclaimed. “Why did we decide to drink on an empty stomach?” he asks. He looks pale. There are clouds covering the whole sky, so the morning light is milky, austere. I sip on a bottle of water. “Cause we hate ourselves,” I confess with more honesty than was intended.
the current tally: self-destruction from loneliness + self-destruction from revenge + self-destruction from desperation
In his old age, Sophocles was asked how he managed with a diminished libido. “That wretched thing! How glad I am to be rid of it. For the first time in my life, I can think!” I remember the old man’s words as I walk into the bar. Two tall brunettes walk past me. They have long hair and long limbs, thin like magazine models, and move like strange creatures. I’m certain they’re more insect than human. Their eyes look through me; I feel like an unsuspecting ghost. I look around and think to myself: the demented circus. the freakshow. the meat market. the lonely-mart. I think of all those great afternoons I spent warming beds in cold houses. Of that one night with the open window and the moonlight and how it made her skin alabaster. Of putting lotion on her legs after her shower, Of rubbing her feet and staring at her in her pink bra. Why does that feel so distant? Why has nothing taken its place already? It’s because I’m terrible, isn’t it? It must be … right? There it is again: mixing memory and desire. and loneliness. In these moments, I can’t distance myself from the weight of love and affection I’ve known. They are there, those heavy ghosts waiting for me at the end of every long drive home, of every lonely moment, of every time someone’s eyes fail to acknowledge me.
the growing tally: the smallness of going unnoticed + humiliation + constantly haunting memories
I place an importance on sex. It’s soo deep it’s not even me anymore. It’s my fingertips and eyelids and earlobes and stomach. What the f*** is it? What is this urge, this fundamental force, this physical desire that cracks us in half? That leads us to rum and card tables and nightclubs and into the backseats of cars? Another memory: the backseat of a car, and we’re both soo uncomfortable, but I’m soo desperate I don’t care.
She says, “I just want you to be happy. Do whatever you want.”
I stare at her. “What?!” I feel sick. Nauseous. “What did you say? Don’t worry about it; I’ll take you home.”
“What are you talking about? What’s the big deal?”
I can’t explain it. I feel dirty. Disgusted. I’m going to drop her off, possibly vomit, then go home to face forces of geological scope and magnitude. I will masturbate instead and dwell in the disappointment of it. The way your own body hates you for it. The feeling of inadequacy. The certainty that there must have been someone somewhere today/tonight/this week/this month/these past four years that might have laughed at your jokes and leaned into you by accident so that your lips met and you felt incredible. Shouldn’t that have happened? Isn’t that natural?
the new tally: desperation + the sharpness of the unmet urge + shame and self-doubt
The next day, my therapist tells me, “You might be addicted to connection.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Yeah. It means something.”
“Everything means something.”
“This means you’re lacking something.”
“I’m lacking a lot of things.”
“I agree. So you are addicted to connection.”
“I am a connection whore. I snort the sand off rocks and smoke the air of coffee shops for it.”
[She stares. I feel disconnected.]
the final tally: sexuality = coming home alone + loneliness + lust + memories of past experiences + self-destruction (from loneliness, revenge, desperation) + the smallness of going unnoticed + humiliation + constantly haunting memories + desperation + the sharpness of the unmet urge + shame and self-doubt + disconnectedness
Homework: Close your eyes. Find your demons. Label them. Put ‘+’ between them. Exorcise them with a tally here.
-end-
