HOW WAS IT FOR YOU?
HOW WAS IT FOR YOU?
The old you get, the less important sex becomes.
I remember when I was younger. I was a human limpet mine. I�d attach myself to anything that passed my waters and cling to it until I blew off, leaving debris and devastation in my midst.
At that age, it wasn�t about quality, or even love. I thought I knew what love was, but really that was just the name I attached to the chemical reaction that happened when I veered, like a magnet, to the nearest girl, woman, rock, or thing that seemed suitable.
There wasn�t any quality control. (A look at the first girlfriend I had � and the walking trainwreck she probably is these days is proof enough of that). It was all about quality. Quantity was all important, as if somehow, the more, more, more of Eighties Britain, the excess of the times, was all important. How many women have you slept with? How many pints can you drink? How much of a man are you?
If being a man meant being the type of person who could drink his own weight in alcohol, change women more often his underwear, and had a fear of kitchens then I�d rather be a pussy whipped neutered Satan boything.
ONE GREAT WOMAN (or SEVERAL AVERAGE ONES)
A friend of mine has slept with just one woman in the past decade. Admittedly, he repeatedly relapses in her arms, but I�m proud � and a tad jealous actually. He�s found one great woman � instead of the several average ones whose phone numbers I�ve tried to forget. Not that there was anything less than great about the women I�ve slept with (of which there has been, well, more than one), but perhaps, they�re women who�d be greater for someone else than they have been for me.
So how was it for you?
Growing up I was mistaking that rush of chemicals for love, when the only love I had was for the self. To get the most I could out of a situation. Then, at some point, when we�ve been battered by frequent empty nights and mismatched mornings, by hopelessly unsuitable but hopeful, brief couplings, we realise that sex isn�t that important. Instead of hoping to create a connection with someone through the physical, the most important thing is to mentally connect with them and then follow through to the next level.
Besides, all this is just some kind of explanation for the fact that I don�t have anywhere near as much sex as I want to. Then again, I never did. Before I entered a relationship, I never quite grasped the fact that grownups aren�t constantly rutting when the front doors are closed. Or, according to some films I watched at a formative age, whenever they go out driving in the country, whenever a plumber calls, and whenever � as frequently happened � chanced upon a lesbian orgy whilst walking naked around a mansion.
We were so lied to by television and movies when we were growing up.
But these days, instead of constantly trying to explore someone�s innards, its actually a lot more fun to explore their mental innerspace. And when the time is right, to consumate that with the holy sacrament of �drinking from the furry cup�, whatever the hell that means.
RAZZAMATAZZ
All it takes really, is to meet someone whose a perfect fit. When that happens � when the constant need for companionship and the fear of loneliness that anonymous, meaningless grunting and sex is abated by finding someone out there � then sex simply becomes an option and not a compulsion.
After all, when love was rare, we took it any chance we could, with anyone � because we hadn�t met many women and even fewer who�d take their clothes off for us without us paying the newsagent �1.75 (or 40p if you knew the right second hand bookshops) for Razzle.
But with time, things become clearer. Seeing someone naked isn�t that important. Seeing the right person naked is, occasionally. In the meantime, it�s all about � not quantity, because several average woman can never equal one perfect one � but quality.
And love is the greatest thing in the world.
� copyright Mark Reed, 1991-2003 except where indicated