In Defense of Fucking

“Why do you even fuck him?”

Ah, yes, this question. This age old question. It’s the same question I get when someone I’m not fucking wants to know why I have opted to fuck the person that I am currently sexually engaged with. It’s a question that pops up pretty frequently: the demand to defend my sexual partners to someone who is not involved in my life in a sexual aspect in any way. It’s weird, really, especially because the only people who feel entitled to ask this kind of question are the ones to whom I am closest and the ones who know me the best. And I’d think that after a few years of friendship, they’d know by now: I fuck him because I want to.

In the past, I used to stammer through this conversation, imbued with self doubt and the internal monologue of, ‘Why do I fuck him? What can I say to convince my friend that this is fine? That I am happy doing this? Or maybe I should stop fucking him?’ I would try to find the words to make it okay for me to be doing what I’m doing. The fact of the matter is: in the moment of fucking him, in the moments of brief text messages and seeing him as he walks in the door – there was never any self doubt in any of those moments, and, even if there were, it would be my self doubt and mine alone with which to deal. My emotions and my sexual needs are not something that need to be put on trial in a casual conversation – but here we are, and I am on trial.

“You can do so much better than him.”

Yeah, my friend is right. And I guess I understand why my friend is saying these kinds of things to me. I have along sexual history with this guy, and not all of it is pretty. Some of our sexual history is fraught with pain and betrayal, but, despite that, I know I wouldn’t be coming back for more if there weren’t a good reason for it. Some of our sexual history is laced with ecstasy and joy, but it’s the bad things that everyone else wants to hang onto.

I know what my friend is trying to say. My friend is trying to say: why are you fucking someone who has no money? He’s seen me lean in and out of relationships with lawyers and men with masters degrees and careers and 401ks and mortages. I must admit that those relationships have always bored me – men with too many responsibilities don’t have the time with which to let go of inhibitions with me. But when I hear my friend ask me why I’m not doing better than the man I currently fuck, all I really hear is, “This poor person is not worthy of love.” Although, it’s not always about money, is it? It’s about the fact that he has problems, that he comes from a dark place, that he does bad things. It’s about the mental health issues and the extenuating circumstances. Which is strange to me, because don’t we live in an era of Black Lives Matter, and so what if someone is predisposed to schizophrenia and exhibiting early symptoms? I have chosen to love this person. It is not as though only a few lucky people out there are worthy of love. Just because he’s broken doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve to be loved, too. So why do I have to sit here and defend everything about him that I think is worthy of love even in the face of mental illness? Why am I supposed to not love someone with mental illness? He’s been to jail a few times, and therefore I should just fuck him and abandon him because society says that there is no future with someone with a rap sheet?

But maybe I don’t want a future. All I really want is right now, and I’m here, right now, with him, and I think that if after all this time I still fuck him and don’t love him – then there’s something wrong with me. Sure, the things that are wrong with him are easily labeled and categorized and defined as “a bad man.” But me? If I walk away from him right now, everyone will think that I’m smart and brave. I’m supposed to be proud to be a feminist, and I will be applauded the moment I leave a man who is already in pain. What is brave about that?

I know, I know. I’m supposed to find a man with a savings account who will buy me a house and take care of my children. But, in all honesty, I’ve never been a fan of the rat race, and I couldn’t see myself loving someone who is. That’s probably why I have a sex blog, which is a shot in the foot in most social and professional situations.

People want to know why I fuck him, and all I can think to say are all the wonderful things about him, but that’s not what people want to hear. People don’t want to hear me say, “I feel close to him. I feel comfortable being vulnerable with him. He makes me feel safe.” Those are not sentiments that are easily translatable and felt by the average asker of the question. I have found it’s easier for me to say, “I like fucking him. He has a big dick. He makes me cum.” People like it when I say things that sexually objectify my otherwise intimidating or aggressive lovers. I know that it’s hard for people to look at a man that society defines as “criminal” and fathom that a woman like me could find some sort of emotional validation or comfort in him. It is easier for people to understand that he is useful as a body and not a mind. I can’t tell them that I spend time with him because I genuinely enjoy it.

At the same time, my friends can’t take my statement on face value that I fuck him because I want to. That answer is never good enough, which makes me wonder: why are these friends my friends if they won’t trust what I say? I feel like my friends are trying to convince me of something that they think they know better than me, but I already know. I already know that this man will hurt me. He has done it in the past, and he will do it again in the future. If I wanted to avoid all pain, I wouldn’t fuck anybody at all. Sure, there might be people who are less capable of inflicting pain than he is, and that’s fine. But I accept the circumstances of pain to which I am submitting myself. He will hurt me, but he will also make me feel great pleasure. I am ready to dive into the depths of human emotion with him, and if I drown, so be it. Drowning is always the tacit payoff for romantic risk taking, and for some reason at times there seems to be nothing more beautiful than being a dead body in the water with his name on my mind.