January 29, 2012
A Guest Post by SOMETHING SHE DATED
When it comes to sex as a performance, it’s not a matter of whether or not it is, or whether or not one should approach it as such…but simply…to what degree. Life is a performance and sex is no different. The real question is just exactly who am I performing for? Because I assure you, it’s more often than not, not the easy answer of but your partner of course. And then more than this is the why behind the escapade or depending on degrees, more aptly titled the charade.
Sex is like ice cream. It comes in any flavor you can imagine. And here are just a few of the flavors that drip themselves upon my tongue. Power sex. Makeup sex. Hate sex. Hotel sex. Vacation sex. Novelty sex. Sampler sex. Revenge sex. Love sex.
Power sex is about me. And you. It validates me. It’s a pat on the back not to worry sweetie, you’re hot, you’re desirable, you can get what you want when you want it. Sure enough you might be in the audience, but the show is for me.
Makeup sex is about us. Together. And apart. I ‘m sorry and you’re sorry and this is how we say it, even if we’ve already said it with words, or maybe exactly because we didn’t or couldn’t. Sometimes it’s sweet. Sometimes it’s cathartic. But the slate is getting washed clean. You wash my slate. I wash your slate. And then the curtains close and the show is over.
Hate sex is about putting me before you. Because I hate you. And also probably love you. But mostly hate you. Maybe because you broke me. Or maybe you just chipped me a bit and I shed a tear or two but we’re through and this is how I say it. I’ll be more aggressive. The sex will be louder, and faster, and harder, and when we’re done I’ll have my clothes on before you can even think to reach for a towel. It might happen only once or I might come back a few times. Really, it just depends on how much rage I still have to work out. But you can be certain. You won’t come out of this without a scratch. And more than just a few bite marks.
Hotel sex is about everybody and nobody. It’s a show for anyone within listening distance. These aren’t my neighbors. These aren’t my sheets. And I haven’t a care in the world. But it’s also something private. And intimate. Because I’ll likely do just about anything, try anything, be anyone, go ahead and ask for your greatest fantasy. Hotel rooms are like little chambers of time and space that don’t exist outside of the four walls encapsulating it. They are a safe space. And while I’m not moaning louder, panting faster, or yelling out fuck me harder for anyone but you. Unlike at home, I don’t care if anyone hears. You’ll fuck me stupid and then I’ll send you out for donuts. With sprinkles!
Vacation sex is about me and my friends, and my spank bank. I’m putting on a show for myself. Look at me, I’m so daring, I’m so scandalous, I’m so indulgent, and I can do whatever I want. And then I do. And it’s a fantasy. And it’s amazing. And you’re so attractive. And everything is just so tropical, or foreign, or spontaneous. And then I’ll go home. And tell all my friends about the amazing sex I had while on Vacation. And I’ll think of you again, warm against my flesh when I’m wet and warm under my sheets. You’ll get me through many a cold winter night when who has time to go out and date when all I want is to help myself off to a good night of sleep. And I’ll cherish you. And what you did for me.
Novelty sex is a grab bag. Sometimes it’s for me, because I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to be with two guys. Sometimes it’s about you, because you wanted to see what it was like to rip a whole in my nylons and do me through it and I’m nothing if not a good sport for someone who deserves it. And sometimes it’s about both of us, when there’s role play and suddenly I’m performing for you and you’re performing for me and suddenly the role of audience becomes intertwined in our interactive live show.
Sample sex is about me. And testing you. Though you may or may not really be able to control your performance. Maybe we’ve gone out on one date and you were absolutely fucking tedious we just didn’t click but you’re super hot and I could use a good booty call. Or maybe we’ve gone on three or four dates and we have a good time, not a great time but good enough and frankly I’m trying to figure out if our time together is worth the effort to put on makeup and shave my legs. Either way. I sleep with you. And it’s a test. Not one that you might pass or fail in the sense that you have any real control. But more like a litmus test. I’m testing to see if your acid balances out my base to form the most intensely balanced pH. I’m testing to see if you can fuck me science…er…I mean silly. This is sampler sex, and I’m dipping my toe in your waters. Whether or not you have any idea.
Revenge sex is about you. Because it hurts. Because it hurts me. Because you’ve hurt me. And so this about me trying to hurt you. Or at least make you flinch. Two for flinching!! And the thing of thing is, you’re not even the one getting laid. Maybe it’s your best friend. Maybe it’s your brother. Maybe it’s your cousin. Or even just your roommate from college. But it’s a sad bad mad thing that I’m doing. And no one will come out the better for it. But people do it anyway. I’m going to do it anyway. The revenge is about you, it’s a show I’m putting on for you and the other guy, my co-star…well…I barely notice him. And the whole thing is so misguided and childish and spiteful and unhealthy but dammit if I’m not going to fall down the rabbit hole anyway.
Love sex is about us. I look into your eyes, run my hand along your jaw line. Trace my thumb across your check until just before it touches your lips. Those are for me, waiting for mine. Lips kiss. Part. Wait. Pant. Hold. Nuzzle down into my neck. There are slow times. Soft times. Fast times. Hard times. Passionate times. No secret times. Sharing everything even this moment times. We lock fingers. Intertwine like highschoolers walking through a county fair. It borders on sappy and gross. But we don’t care. Nobody is watching. Nobody else matters. This is for us. You. Me. Us. Love.
And I’m sure you. He. They. Her. The other person. Has their own view, another side to all our fantastical sexcapades. These Performances of Passion. These Luaus of Lust. These Dances of Desire. These Operas of Orgasm. But sometimes I’m just fucking for myself. Sure you’re there. You’re necessary. You’re an integral ingredient. But the reasons why you’re there. Why I picked you. Picked now. Picked here. Or there. Well that’s about me. Narcissistically nuanced sex. And don’t pretend you don’t do it to.
And sometimes the sex is good, healthy, stable type sex. And sometimes it’s false, destructive, broken type sex. That’s life. A mix bag. A grab bag. You just never know what you’re going to get. But just remember that the next time some young 22 year old lets you fuck her in the backseat of her car, parked down some dimly lit rarely used street, at four am after the club…she’s probably just doing it for the feeling of power it gives her. And if you’re cool with that, then fuck away my friend. But know that she’s faking. And that’s really the biggest problem with performing sex. A girl not getting off, and a boy not knowing.