I don’t remember what movie or TV show I was watching the other day, but I saw a depiction of a passionate couple fucking. And in a way that I haven’t allowed myself to feel so very much of in my life, I allowed myself to feel, or maybe I noticed that I was feeling, a real sadness, a sense of loss and deprivation. They were fucking from passion – a way that, at least in the way that it’s often depicted in the movies, is just not really a prominent feature either of my contemporary or my historical experience.
There are exceptions. A night at a party in my twenties with a good friend and sometime lover that I recall. Some breakup sex I had once around the same time with a different woman. A few instances here and there since then.
But honestly, it just isn’t how I roll, that passionate, lose-control-of-yourself, have-to-fuck-the-other. That’s just not how I’m configured.
No, the way I roll is with scheduled, planned, pre-negotiated, anticipated, scripted encounters.
Don’t get me wrong, this blog is filled with hundreds of really hot instances of such scripted encounters. I have nothing against them, and I’m not complaining about a single one of them.
At the same time, every so often, my somewhat defensive pretense or claim that I’m the straight equivalent of a gay side, a man whose sexual orientation, whose sexual preferences, simply are, for the most part, located somewhere other than in normative intercourse – well, every so often, the defensiveness of that posture becomes undeniable.
I don’t think it’s wrong, and I don’t really shy away from it. I do think, though, that, as with just about anything, there is some loss associated with it. (If I were a normie, sexually speaking, a guy who just likes fucking, think of all the hotness on this blog I would have missed out on!)
So I’m really not lamenting where I am, or who I am, or what I’ve done. Rather, I’m observing the fact that to do anything is not to do something else. To have one sexual encounter is not to have another. To be configured in one way necessarily precludes experiences associated with other possible configurations. So this is not, in absolute terms, a complaint or a lament.
I was reading a paper the other day about trans children. The paper was by a trans psychoanalyst. And in it, she argues that a necessary aspect of the trans existence of many is to mourn the extent to which one’s body is other than how one might wish it to be. This feels to me almost a universal truth. Most of us don’t have the body we wish we had. God knows I wish I were six foot two. And while I’ve reconciled myself quite happily to my five-and-a-half-inch beautifully curved cock… for many, many years I would have given my eyeteeth for another inch (or three). Not to mention the hair that fell from my head in my mid-twenties!
I’ve spent a not-inconsiderable portion of my adult life mourning my height, my cock, my hair. I can only imagine the grief I might have suffered had my body so offended my sense of self!
It’s in this spirit that I’m thinking about fucking. The spirit of not wishing that things are other than they are. Not longing for a reality different than the one I inhabit. But rather simply registering, remarking on, and feeling the pain associated with the disappointment and loss that comes of reconciling myself to my existence as it is, as it has been.