My life at the moment can be summed up alliteratively by two words – fasting and fucking. Honestly, the health kick trend of not eating seems to ignite the root chakra or something. All that energy normally spent on digesting food has to go somewhere. The result is a paradoxical union of the transcendent and the profane.
I think God likes it when we fuck. But only when we do it without shame or guilt. That’s the key. Only when it’s pure is it sacred. Let your church be a bed. It’s more comfy than a wooden pew. Behold, how religion has poisoned the chalice of desire. Though, personally, I always feel baptised when kneeling in front of a hot man, worshipping his dick with my mouth. Somehow, I just know that God approves, because S/He sees that religion cares not how far sex is an expression of real love, only that it wears the shabby robe of respectability.
Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not disparaging sex with someone you love. I’m simply submitting that the domain of love does not have a monopoly on meaningful sexual experience. ‘Making love’ is a term that actually irritates me quite a lot, with its saccharine suggestion of a union imbued with so much more significance than just plain fucking. Even outside of religion the phrase is a pious locution smacking of a hierarchy of intercourse in which the love-free erotic encounter is relegated to a lower, shallower, order of experience.
Religion, though, does provide a useful analogy: when the poet Shelley was thrown out of Oxford in 1811 on the charge of contumacy for writing the then-outrageous essay, The Necessity of Atheism – a tract he refused to withdraw even under threat of being disowned by his father – it didn’t stop him going on to write poetry describing an “unseen power” whose light “gives grace and truth to life’s unquiet dream.” Shelley, always so far ahead of his time, had managed to cleave organised religion open, revealing a suffocated spirituality of the psyche, and then set it free in his work. Similarly, sex can be rescued from the tyranny of establishment-approved love and celebrated as a dynamic bacchanal, the carnal spirit of which is just as sacred as that enjoyed by any moon-eyed couple simpering sweet nothings.
But again, I must plead that I am fully in favour of the sex/love combination. I like ‘making love’ with a man I care for, one who can hold a conversation afterwards about the important things. A man interested in my mind as much as in my body and who conveys that sensitivity in the sweetness of his embrace and the tenderness of words whispered in poignant communion. The trouble is, I then get the urge to be drilled senseless by a sexy Neanderthal with a rock-hard dick. A man monosyllabic not by choice, in that contrived ‘strong, silent type’ pose, but by necessity, because his vocabulary contains only the bare minimum number of sounds required to secure food, shelter and sex.
I am unabashed, because there is something loin-stirring about a man stripped of everything but his primal urges. An atavistic, lupine creature unable to spoil my carnal encounters by having unnecessary access to an intellect. Scientists call this phenomenon ‘the Liam Gallagher effect’. Liam’s ex-girlfriend Patsy Kensit once complained of her time with him: ‘I didn’t read a book in two years.’ Oh, get a grip Patsy! You made a schoolgirl error there. You don’t move in with a man like this and build a life. You fuck him! And you love every sweat-drenched second of it!
You leave the mattress looking like a war zone and you leave him lying in the debris, chest heaving, groin throbbing. But you haven’t exploited him, oh no. Because to eat, sleep and fuck is his existential pleasure, and all your emotional depth, your right-on politics, your rapier wit and your erudition mean absolutely nothing to him. The only questions worth asking here are: can you ride his dick like a frenzied rodeo queen? Can you suck that thing with genuine relish? Can you touch his body and not care whether you touch his soul? Can you abandon yourself to a purely physical experience and reach transcendence through that somatic, rhythmic indifference?
Because if you can’t, if you can only get off on love, if you can only orgasm with the accompanying desperate assurance that he has feelings for you – then you can never give your body fully to a man. Not even in the bliss of idyllic romantic union will your desire for him be authentic. And your ‘salt swollen cunt’ – if I can use that great truth-telling poet Rochester for my own ends – will be a ‘passive pot for fools to spend in’, and all carnal truth will evaporate with your synthetic juices from the dishonoured bedsheet. ‘Such natural freedoms are but just: / There’s something generous in mere lust.’ said the original Libertine. And so, if neither lover is fucking under false pretences, let them rise to those sublime heights together and charge the other’s body with a sacred electricity.
Sexual energy, in its pure form, is as hallowed as love. It is not dirty. It is not contaminated. I mean – contaminated by what? I’ve never heard a convincing argument for the ‘sex, in and of itself, is tainted’ line, outside of hypocritical religion or societal psychosis. Lust may be a deadly sin according to the Christian Church, but all of those irrelevant Abrahamic texts were written by men terrified of female power and sexuality. Men who could only handle unleashing it if they could call it whoring. Our pre-‘civilisation’ sisters and brothers would not have comprehended this calumny, where tribal culture existed free from chivalric chains and patriarchal mendacity. We truly have ages of deceit to undo, and I flatter myself these words are part of the unpicking.
Truth. I must have it – in every aspect of life, or life is not worth living. Truth in every interaction is the foundation of a life lived with integrity. And I will demand it, in my work, in my friendships, and in my bed. So, fuck in truth, and you will be washed clean.