PSFU request: Uncomplicated sex
After many years of riding the Fucktown Express Train liberally, I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as ‘uncomplicated sex’. Sex is loaded with implications, politics and semantics that reach far beyond the act of fist pumping genitals. Each step in the unraveling process carries with it at least two dozen mind-boggling puzzles that leave us in a platoon of pornographic perplexity.
Should I leave the lights on? Do you really want me to punch you in the face? No, that doesn’t really feel good… Should I text? Should I call? Will you think that I want to wear your mug as a mardi gras mask if I ask for a glass of water, instead of high-tailing it home within 2 minutes of seminal expulsion?
There are so many do’s and don’ts. How did such a simple human act become such a shitstorm of complication, shame, regret, and awkward perfunctory sexual advances.
If you’re too casual people assume you are a soulless conglomerate of promiscuity. If you’re too responsive, le genitals retract out of fear of your Bounce fabric-like clinginess. Lose, lose.
I have no wise words to guide your sexual tidbits to perpetual bliss. This may be the most depressing post to-date, but as a self-proclaimed psychologist and a self-learned physiologist, I have done the leg-work, the research and the A-B multi-variant testing (nerd joke), and have no brilliant conclusion to splatter all over your hopeful faces. I suppose it’s asexuality until a proper solution reveals itself.
Good luck out there, champs.