Hear/Say

I’m allowed to do some stereotypical blog-angst after a rant about chest hair, right? Right.

“Yes, I was infatuated with you; I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.” –Sylvia Plath

via merricat.tumblr

by celeb photog terry richardson via terrysdiary.com

I’m trying to think of what sexuality  means to people my age, in the “contemporary” sense. Sex is “just” sex; I think the weight of the “just” is more evaluated at the individual level rather than a general/provincial consensus (i.e. sinful vs. meaningless physical act, etc.); but what of the mind and body? Some separate it– certainly, Don Draper does (ahem, a quote that endlessly amuses me– “fuck the pain away”) in a conventional way, but he’s still trying to fuck the pain of Dick Whitman away. So perhaps they aren’t so separate, in his case. He is who he is when he orgasms– just some man on top of a well-dressed broad.

Unless when I say “separate”, it really means deviate from emotional reflection. As in, denying that there is this “pain” (or whatever emotion) and pronouncing sexuality (at my age) to be predominately controlled by lust and some good dirty fun. I think most of us can agree that males are more successful from that angle/ it is socially acceptable and admirable to “have more fun” (see: Angelina’s situation versus The Situation in the last season of Jersey Shore) where lovemaking and sex are easily two different things.

"Wanna smush?"

For women? It’s a bit harder. Starting from the physical: we don’t have a “third limb”; perhaps this is symbolic as to why we can’t externalize “meanings” of sex as easily and without regret. Socially, you’re a whore if you try, and ironically, you are condemned on both sides of the gender spectrum. But everyone knows this, and continues to perpetuate it (this most definitely includes me. I’ll, uh, work on it).

So to echo Sylvia’s words without the stereotypical English major angst (O phony World!), I can’t stand being one out of ten– much less twenty, thirty, etc.. Maybe I have too much time to think about it, or not enough (good) experiences. Those who know me probably understand that I have no fantastical delusion of making love to my future husband or whatever dreams of happy endings that may not come. I have often wished I were more easily amused, and could embrace more lustful frippery; but alas, my body cannot soak in the alcohol. My attention span is lacking; often, I find myself spacing out or thinking to myself when I’m in some sort of social interaction.

This is not an “O Woe Is Me” sort of conclusion. This is also not meant to be a confession that I, prudish lurker, muted wallflower, awkward girl in her sober corner who won’t dance with you, am in love with personalities (although, I think I am. This doesn’t mean I don’t lust for fantastic bods, or Johnny Depp, or even Marion Cotillard for that matter– not to say that it is or isn’t gay, but she cannot help but evoke lust. Methinks). It would be wonderfully fun to make-out. I daydream about it. Hypocritically, I’m also equally if not more terrified of being in love with the person whose face I’m sucking.

What gives? It’s not a conclusion at all; perhaps it’s slowly spelling out the foundations of my sexuality. Or it’s a really good sign that I need to get out more often. Blog less and live more?

Chyeah right.

Graceee