Tuesday, August 6, 2013

The Big 'O'


So I recently had the absolute biggest orgasm that I have ever had in my entire life. If indeed I had lost my groove, I have most certainly got it back. For the past couple of months, I have been obsessed with investigating its lost and the reasons for it. Nowadays, I’m more interested in just enjoying its return. Skeet, skeet, skeet, skeet, have more beautiful words ever been spoken?

Considering the fact that I try not to look gifted horses in the mouth, I don’t particularly have a need to look my (or the other guy’s) gifted dick in the pee pee hole. However, if a gifted horse does speak I will most certainly listen. With that in mind, I have been listening to my own body, my own needs, my own ass, my own dick. I’ve been trying to think of an appropriate theme song for my body. I’m teetering between “Your Body Is A Wonderland” by John Mayer, “Falling To Pieces” by Faith No More, “Plump” by Hole, “Manhole” by Ani DiFranco, “Am I Human?” by Sinead O’Connor and “Just Be A Woman” by Lenny Kravitz.

There is a sacred moment that occurs seconds after an orgasm. I imagine it’s our bodies reenacting the creation of the universe, big-banging ourselves back to the creator. It seems, for a few seconds, maybe minutes, you leave yourself, lose consciousness, as your mind and your body remembers the cinnabar juice from which it evolved from. For me, I totally forgot that my body was a wonderland, that I was falling to pieces, that I was a manhole. For a minute there, I was existence itself and I could feel the heartbeat of philosophers playing Twister on my chest for centuries, trying to win; left foot red, right hand yellow, holism, solipsism, alchemy, ontology, Freudism, Jungianism, Catholicism, Christianity, all a game, left hand green, right foot blue. And while the struggle continues for the right belief system to contort itself to be the winner, I realized, THIS is what it is, everything, nothing, a good orgasm.


Then, of course, you snap out of it. You’re lying there (or standing or kneeling there as the case may be) and you remember… you are you and you are there with this other person.

I’ve noticed that unless you’re in a committed relationship with this person, no matter how many indiscreet sexual moments you have had in your life, there is ALWAYS a degree of awkwardness here. You just saw God, she resembled you, and this other person just saw you do that.

A friend of mine recently told me that he applauds men who get penetrated then walk away from the encounter without any emotional attachment. I couldn’t help but hear Radio City Music Hall give me a standing ovation. The myth is that the person who is penetrating is dominate and cold and the person who is getting penetrated is emotional and nurturing, be they man or woman. The truth of the matter is, the person who fucks is the person who fucks and the person who is getting fucked is the person who is getting fucked, and when it is over, it’s over, and you go back to what you were doing beforehand. Men have this need to believe that if we pierce you with our massive beef swords and make you squeal then we have some sort of abstract subliminal superiority. I have been guilty of this concept myself. Then I heard “Precious Things” by Tori Amos in which she most proudly sings, “So… you can make me cum, does that make you Jesus?” Something in me clicked when I heard that line. I don’t think I’ve been the same since. I guess it was “truth concentrate” for me. In certain ways it was a bit emasculating because I had that mentality when I fucked, but it was also empowering because I adopt that mentality after I get fucked. And it’s amazing how many men, especially black men, just don’t get it. We’re still caught up in those old school, sanctified, “Leave It To Beaver”, “Ozzie & Harriet”, Donna Reed visions of gender and sexual roles. It’s very much a “fuck and conquer” concept for the typical brother. I long for the day when we get to a place where we’re both like, “Let’s fuck like the porno monkey slut boys that we are and when it’s over, you’ll go to work and I’ll go get a cup of coffee.”

I remember one night while chatting online, someone instant messaged me with the implicit need to make me his “bitch”. He went on and on about how he is a real man and about how I was “Daddy’s Little Fuck Slut” [Insert uncontrollable laughter here]. I forgot what I said to him but I remember his response was something on the level of, “What did you just say to me? You fucking bottoms have got to learn to stay in line!” At which point he said that if I wanted to hook up with him that I would have to give him “tribute”… tribute in the sum of $200. He gave me his address in the valley, told me to show up in his foyer, leave the money on the front table, then proceed further into his house for the “Pussy Pounding” of my life. All I kept thinking was… all of this… for eight and a half inches. I went to Subway and got twelve inches for $5.49 and went to sleep. 

I think orgasms are just as subjective as the Bible. One group of people look at them as a source of pride, another group of people look at them as a source of shame; if you get them via your dick you’re a “real” man, if you get them via your rectum, you’re a punk. I say… just get them.

As for me with my latest sexual conquest, it was a little awkward afterwards, but he did drive me to work. I haven’t talked to him since but the phone works both ways and I haven’t called him either. We both went back to who we were before we fucked. Granted, with smiles on our faces, but they were the same faces, the same goals and fears were there. People commonly mistake sex for love and love for sex, especially when you’ve had the orgasm of life; I’ve done it a couple of times myself. Maybe doing it a little bit right now.  The conundrum is that you can have sex without love but it’s damn near impossible to have love without sex, so when you find someone who rocks your world, the door is open to the possibility of that person becoming “special”, which is a little like putting the cart before the horse. Instead of dating someone and finding out who they are, gay men tend to fuck first then discover later. We leave ourselves vulnerable for that possibility of something special with that trick we just picked up from the club, the aquarium, choir practice... AA meetings; because we got that orgasm thing out the way and now all we have to do is figure out is if they’re pro-choice, liberal and like independent films. 

But the record has definitely shown that as amazing, stupendous and absolutely remarkable orgasms can be, they can’t a trump a little understanding, a shoulder to cry on, a simple phone call to ask how you’re doing. So you have sex and then you have love. Say you have two guys… one you love but you can’t sex with or don’t have good sex with. Then you have the guy you have amazing sex with, but he has the emotional capacity of a garden pea. Sophie’s Choice. I don’t know if there is a right answer to that. What I do know, as men, we have to start appreciating the bird in the hand and stop admiring the two in the bush… no matter  how awesome the two birds that big banged you are.





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