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What Is...S-E-X?
Hey, what's up,
Today, I want to reflect on a story from my childhood...
...it's embarrassing, somewhat hilarious, and pretty bizzare.
It's about the first time I learned about the magic three letters: S-E-X.
"Okay Rob," I'll bet you're wondering, "What does this have to do
with dating hot chicks? How is this going to help me land the girl of my
dreams?"
Actually, this story has EVERYTHING to do with that. I believe most
guys over-complicate sex. They make it into a grand affair and that ends
up screwing them over when they meet a girl they like.
I know that was a major problem I had!
So, read this story and hopefully you'll learn the same lesson I
did. This letter just may simplify an aspect of dating you have
over-complicated for years...
My earliest memory of sex is, fittingly, also my most embarrassing
memory of sex. Just as fitting, it really had nothing to do with sex at
all, but instead a bunch of dudes sitting around, talking ABOUT sex.
I must've been in 4th or 5th grade. Whatever age the State of New
York deems appropriate the tantalizing course titled SEX EDUCATION.
All my excitement was crushed upon learning that the guide into the
magical land of sex was the burly and bearded gym teacher, Mr. Sackman -
more affectionately known as the "Sack Attack."
Despite my young age, had this been a course in hilarious synonyms
for genitals, I would've been well on my way to graduate study. Like
most of my peers, my parents left my learning of sex to the traditional,
time-trusted teacher known as The Street.
Being a typical red-blooded, all-American boy, I soaked up the core
curriculum via hushed jokes, pornography stashes, and "Married with
Children" reruns. By the time I was sitting in Sack Attack's symposium
on sex, I was pretty confident I could be teaching HIM a thing or two on
the subject.
But that all changed when Sack Attack lived up to the no-pun-intended meaning of his name: Sack Attack sacked me.
It began when his meaty hand clamped the string on the map roller,
revealing a diagram of a tragically drawn penis, hanging flaccidly.
"Look familiar, gentlemen?" Sack Attack asked. "It should! Cause we ALL got one."
He took an ominous step forward, "But that DON'T mean we all know
how to use it. So let's spend the next hour discussing just that." He
took a glance across the room, then added, "Buckle up, boys!"
Bodies squirmed nervously in their desks.
"Okay, so the first thing you gotta know," he explained...
But here's where details get hazy. I don't remember the first thing
we had to know. Nor do I remember the second, nor the third. Perhaps I
blocked it all out. Perhaps I honestly forgot.
All I can remember is feeling pathetically confused, as if Sack
Attack were teaching calculus to a student who could hardly do
three-digit multiplication.
I was thinking "wtf" - and this was back in the early '90s, before
"wtf" even existed. All I can recall are certain words, phrases: "the
act," "engage in intercourse," "it's a choice you and her make."
Huh?
I thought sex education was about wangs, juggs, hooters, wieners,
vah-jay-jays, tits and ass, perhaps a fart thrown in for good measure,
and, of course, an expose on all things sack-related (up to and
including "dees nuts").
Sack Attack's vague syllabus hypnotized me into a zombie-like trance
where I found myself raising my hand and asking, "Wait, hold on. What
exactly IS sex?"
A room full of laughter followed my question like a dark,
condescending shadow. While I had honest intentions, I immediately
realized my pending public humiliation. So I adjusted my approach
accordingly, assuming the role of heckler.
"Can you please explain this thing called SEX, Mr. Sackman?" I clarified, "We want to hear it from an expert."
Sack Attack's face scrunched up behind his lumberjack beard with the
disgust one would expect after having his sexual history satirized by
some little wiseass who hadn't yet sprouted his first pube.
"Why don't you go ask your father," mumbled Sack Attack, his voice laced with dark anger.
The class laughed at Sack Attack, as I sat back feeling like I'd
just won a major triumph. I was still ignorant about what sex actually
was, but at least I'd landed a good joke, at Sack Attack's expense.
Yet, to this day, I regard that moment as pivotal in my sexual
maturation. Happily, I traded an education in the inner workings of sex
for momentary starship as a comic hero of sorts. Rather than an answer
sparking my quest for truth, a non-answer became my dark inspiration for
a skin-surface understanding of this thing called SEX.
As the days passed and my comic celebrity faded, I found myself
haunted by Sack Attack's retort. Why DON'T I ask my father? God, I'm
living proof that guy knows SOMETHING about sex.
I even remember asking my dad, rather bluntly, "Dad, what's sex?"
Cryptically, all he said was, "As if you don't know. Really, Robby. Stop acting immature."
Fine. If my father couldn't give me the answers, I'd consult
Webster. With furtive determination, I trekked to the local library,
stepped up to the cartoonishly oversized dictionary - perched on a
pedestal like a Book of God - and searched. The tissue-soft pages
breezed under my fingertips as I flipped to this 3-lettered, taboo
mystery: S-E-X.
And there it was, SEX, shimmering in golden rays of knowledge. I
skipped the pronunciation key, the needless parts-of-speech
abbreviations, and the obvious gendered connotations. My eyes scrolled
the page until I found it. Simple, to-the-point verbiage. "The act of a man inserting his penis into a woman's vagina."
I had an...Epiphany!
But this wasn't an "OMG" epiphany. This was more of a "srsly?!"
epiphany - and this was still back in early '90s before "OMG," "srsly?!"
even existed.
But let's get back to my eureka, your explanation, and our story.
So. I stood aloft on that bookstand, my head whirling with sexual
clarity. 'That's IT?' I remember thinking. Penis in...the vagina...?
Really? That's what all the hype's about...?
Well, it'd be about a decade later before the word became flesh. And, man, was that...an epiphany.
The grand tale of my virginity loss is best suited as a
joke or a high-fivable exploit fit for a locker room. Because to me,
that's all it'll ever be: something I'd yell to the guy at the next
urinal.
It's a story in a one-sentence punch line. "My friend Donny and me
double-teamed this chick in the backseat of my family minivan when we
were seventeen."
Of course, if you have me narrate the saga over a pitcher of Coors
Light, I'll add descriptive grace notes such as "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" was
blasting on the CD player and the minivan was a monstrous purple
eyesore we'd dubbed the Mommy Mobile.
The whole ordeal remains an absurdity made still more absurd
considering, of all my friends, I had placed the most romantic
expectations on, what I then called, "love making."
I envisioned beds of roses, expected dialogue straight out of a John Cusack movie. Instead, irony won an epic victory that summer afternoon, and, in a lot of ways, that incident (again) marked a pivotal moment because of all it never was.
It wasn't magical. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't special. It wasn't
long. But it wasn't comically short either. It wasn't mind-blowingly
pleasurable, nor was it laughably horrid.
It just WAS. Nondescript and vaguely funny: not unlike learning about sex from the OED in the library.
So, really, what IS sex other than the insipid user-manual instructions that call for inserting Tab A into Slot B?
Well.
Answers vary depending on whom you ask. Ask a sex-starved guy, he'll tell you sex is about "getting lucky."
Ask a girlfriend-clamped dude, he'll say it's "when she's in the mood."
Ask a frat bro, he'll exclaim it's "SCORING!"
Ask Sack Attack, he'll encourage some father-son bonding.
Ask my dad, he'll tell you that you're immature.
Ask the chick Donny and I double-teamed in the Mommy Mobile, she'll
tell you it's a combination of being sixteen, drinking 3 Mike's Hard
Lemonades, and Iron Butterfly tunes.
But, ultimately, here's the epiphany. And this epiphany will NOT rock your socks...
This epiphany will NOT be learned in sex ed or from porno stashes or
"Married With Children" reruns or the backseat of my mom's minivan...
This is an epiphany precisely for all it is not...
Ready? (Buckle up boys.)
*Sex is whatever you make of it.*
Sex can either be very complicated, or very simple.
Very casual, or very committed.
Very fast, or very slow.
Varietals are infinite. But the prime mover is finite and
singular. Your belief about sex - your definition OF sex - ultimately
manifests as your reality of sex.
Calling it a self-fulfilling prophesy is to over-complicate it. It's
nothing more than a man inserting his penis into a woman's vagina. Tab A
into Slot B.
Why did it ever become anything more?
Why is it anything more than, "Penis in vagina."
Tab A, Slot B.
And that's it: a conclusion completely anticlimactic and utterly devoid of sparklingly seductive insight. The perfect epiphany.
Until next time,
X.A
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