11 Jan 2019
Some thoughts on why we do what we do
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Reasons...if any are needed – why do we do as we do?
We are all conceived in comforting wet heat, nurtured in it too - and then calved – wet, cold and nude into the prickling blankets. Wrapped by a midwife into our mother’s waiting arms, and for most of us, if we could express it, our sole wish would be to banish the world; or be absent from it. Instead, thanks to some degree of mothering not to mention gruff and inept fathering; we survive. Quick months become years; we suckle, grow teeth, limbs and soon a fleeting momentary childhood snaps away - and mostly unschooled, we ascend into ignorant toilet-trained puberty. It’s hard to tell who is most embarrassed by it – is it us, or the schoolteacher, (who has seen it all before and is by traditional regulation banned from teaching us anything useful about our libidos.) Or is it the mother – how is she to address the yearning adolescent prick she knew as a child? God forbid the Priest. ( I once knew intimately a Catholic Girl, she had fair skin, blue eyes, she was slim and tall. Her small breasts tipped with the lightest pink I had ever seen. She was any man’s dream – She for reasons I will never know took me as a lover when we were less than 20. We took baths together and she devoured my prick as though it was the last one on earth. But, she could not Orgasm. She was 20, she was perfect, but her Catholic Mother had ruined sex for her already. A woman’s dirty duty – nothing I could do or say to shift those childhood lessons. At 20 I knew almost nothing but I knew a woman should be allowed to orgasm. So much for parenting. Yes, I know, everyone has a different story – but are they really, all that different? Or are most adolescent experiences similar to mine? ( Don't ask- don't tell)
My Mother was a midwife, and as a child I had access to the bookshelf where all her Textbooks were kept. I remember staring intently and studying the detailed pen-and-ink printed drawings, in an 800 – page “Text Book for midwives” - Pictures drawn quite close-up, with arrows showing all the names. Pubis. Mons Veneris. Vulva. Urethra. Clitoris. I had never seen any such thing of course, in real life, but at least I KNEW. Everything was there, all the pictures, photos too, all in black and white- Medical grade accuracy. By the time I was 12, I seriously knew the score from those books and no one had actually TOLD me anything. When I was 14 or 15 and no longer a virgin, I was stealing condoms from my father. He noticed, I think, and gave me a lecture off-the-cuff about how to find a woman’s clitoris. He described it as being like a small man in a boat. I was baffled but I did not bother to tell him I already knew. (He assumed, rightly, that I was mostly wanking with the condoms)
There is only ONE important thing my parents got right. ( Well actually, its 2 things) – The first is they had ZERO interest in religion, and they told us kids we were free to decide for ourselves. The second thing was they never judged me harshly for my opinions, or my feelings. I had girlfriends. I drank beer. I stayed away from home sometimes for days. They tolerated everything. They KNEW I was fucking anything with a pulse, and they never lectured me, or despised me. And they were not homophobic, which was an important blessing.
At High school, I had a good friend, and he was racked with guilt about his sexuality. He had a fantastic prick – we would masturbate together – and after not too long he was addicted to me sucking his cock which I used to do as often as he wanted. He was at first horrified then delighted as he would orgasm in my mouth, after warning me repeatedly he was about to cum - I swallowed it all, usually. His cum was copious, sticky, peppery, musky. He was VERY conflicted, hated his father who had married a woman of another race, and he hated his mother who had left him when he was 4 or 5. I think he hated me because I was so relaxed compared with himself. I went through a period of convincing myself I would be an artist, or a musician, that I was very talented, and very gay. I am none of those things. But One thing that emerged for me at that time – something that has been challenged and attacked ever since, by myself, and the world – is that I should not judge myself by standards other than my own; and I do not feel guilt for taking my own pleasure where I find it. Also I do not judge those who take pleasure of their own :- but I do pity those who seem unable to FIND pleasure, or unable to recognise it as it lies right in front of them. Those who diminish pleasure, belittle it or act in vulgar ways towards others, without intelligence or empathy. Those folk, I pity, and avoid if I see them.
So what am I trying to say? That to be free from guilt is freedom itself.
I grew up and made my own rules because none of the rules provided for me made any sense and none of the established rules seemed to fit what people actually DO – and the only reason I did not end up in jail or dead is pure blind luck.
Later when I studied some psychology at University and I learned about “locus of control” - internal vs external – it all made sense at the time – but soon I realised that psychology too is mostly bullshit – none of the most important practitioners can agree on much – and you are back where you started. If you really want to make sense of this world – study, read a LOT – then make up your own mind. That's worked out fine for me so far.
Labels belong on beer bottles and food packets. Not people. And anyone who thinks they can find out anything by getting people to tick boxes on a piece of paper is going to be replaced by a robot and deservedly so. These are my thoughts on labelling people. Fuck labels.
And so I find myself an adult human male – (Right - there are 3 labels its virtually impossible to argue against) – and I must endure every day what it feels like to be me. (For the sake of keeping things simple Lets not get into the validity or otherwise of gender-assignment at birth – but I suspect in future if we humans do survive as a species, it’s gonna have to go.)
Meditation helps. Un-cluttering the mind, realising that petty jealousy and yearning for material things is a false path to happiness...ok fine, but its BORING and does not prevent constant horniness. Erections, and the dull expectant weight of sexual energy. A desire to fuck, and cum...but it’s much more complex than that because I need to find someone else in the same boat who is prepared to admit they want to cum too….that's the whole point of it, no? Why else do we HAVE sex? Simple Biology, in my opinion. A clever trick of the genetic code, ensuring its continued survival, and nothing more.
And then there is the mind itself. Never satisfied with anything for very long. The inescapable truth that biology has been very mean with its pleasure-chemicals, probably for good reason. But when you are at the peak of the food chain, not being hunted by any other fierce beasts, and you have lots of leisure time because you discovered money, you have a problem. Your damn prick will not leave you alone for very long. ( I have no idea what its like to have a pussy so I can’t comment. I am guessing it’s just as bad for the girls. Worse, maybe because of patriarchy)
So I search for others like me, who have the same problem, and are prepared to admit it – and Oh joy – I find some. Technology has finally provided something actually useful. OK : everyone is hiding in plain sight behind their nicknames and or close-up photos that reveal both everything and nothing, and you realise quickly that a LOT of these people have brought issues they have not worked through, yet. People are in an agony of self-doubt, a lot of them, over their sexual desires. There is a lot of denial. A lot of fear. Judgemental statements. Crazy Rules. Insurmountable barriers to trust. My favourites include those who list only everything they DON'T want.
I suppose, for some, perhaps for many, fantasies are enough. THAT, I understand; but its a little dishonest, I feel, to imply that you are THERE, when really, you are NOT there. You ought to have a flag – a sign – “don't bother me I am only pretending.” No worries dear heart I will move on.
Others are worried their pee-pees will touch. Amusing are those “swingers” listings which include or imply a check-list of approved or “not approved” acts – Up Front. It’s an attempt to be honest but what it reveals is the exact opposite. Yes, of course, personal freedoms, fantasies, people can choose, freedom of speech and all that - yes I support all those things – but when the male partner seeking another male for a threesome with his wife seems to be frantically homophobic – I say they have a way to go in finding themselves. It takes all sorts, I suppose, to make a world. Maybe it’s really me who has a lot to learn.
Pornography is interesting in this regard. I am speaking of the typical male-orientated commercial porn which is guilty (arguably) of objectifying women, whilst providing totally unrealistic images of sex, which the producers hope heterosexual men will buy. We have all seen it. Details are unimportant but it ultimately includes those tried and tested close-up visuals of large erect male cocks either being sucked, fucking, or anally penetrating women, or being wanked; and of course always includes the money shot. What interests me is that the male consumers of this material claim to be heterosexual, not at all aroused by other men, and yet have great erotic pleasure from watching a video of a great male performer. Just sayin.
Before I get accused of being a Misogynist – let me say I completely agree with the point of view which is understood I think by more and more women every day - that this whole “Objectification of Women” argument could only exist in a world such as ours with its Patriarchal legacy and Male-centred and male-dominated value system. If women want to make porn more power to them I say. I didn't make this world, I only have to live in it.
I wonder, myself, if the value-system itself were very different, If we had the world John Lennon Imagined – no religion, all people simply living, for today – how much better could it be.