Twenty years ago, when our kid was an infant, I had this simultaneous delusion and consciousness of my own deludedness: I was certain the New York Times was missing a huge story by failing to cover this remarkable, spectacular child. On one hand, I could perceive how genuinely magnificent our baby was. On the other, I knew I was experiencing what every parent experiences—the miracle of life that is both universal and utterly ordinary. Every baby is newsworthy, and therefore none truly is. But here’s the thing about parenting: even as I knew all this, I remained convinced the Times was missing a big story.
I feel a similar way about sex—about me and sex, specifically. A gay friend recently told me about being approached at a party by another man who said, “Hey, I’d really like to suck your cock,” and proceeded to boast about his skills. Hearing this, I imagined deploying a parallel strategy: approaching a woman and saying, “I’d really like to go down on you—and let me tell you how good I am at it.” On one level, I’d be right. I happen to know I’m not just talented; I’m a great ride. For many people, the best ride they’ve ever had.
Of course, sex is like parenting in this way: every instance feels like the best ever. The sex I’m having now genuinely is the best sex I’ve ever had—which doesn’t diminish all the other sex I’ve had. It’s just something unique about the phenomenon itself. So yes, I have the fantasy that every woman who doesn’t seek out my tongue, my fingers, my toys, my attention, my kindness, generosity, sensitivity, firmness—and yes, my cock—is making an inexplicable, perhaps catastrophic mistake. She’s missing the sexual experience of a lifetime.
But I also know this is ridiculous. It misses the entire point of sex. Sex isn’t about body parts or skill sets, which is what I dislike about sex clubs and the swinger scene. My self-regard extends to the mental realm: I think what makes me a good sexual partner is my devotion to pleasure, my intuitive reading of a woman’s body, my generosity, my creativity, my ability to conjure sexual scenes. But all of that narrows the universe of potential partners dramatically. Most women have no interest in the kind of sexual theater I’m skilled at creating. Most just want to be fucked—not told how to sit, what to wear, when they can or can’t come. And even that’s not true; many women want something else entirely.
I know all this. And yet, halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge on my bike, at 22 degrees, with cold toes and cold fingers, I remain convinced: the Times is still missing a great story.
