When I was younger, people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told them all sorts of things, mostly just puffed up dreams based on images I had seen in magazines and sportswear catalogs. Of course, most of those dreams didn’t come true. They were too far fetched and unattainable to ever be realistic. But what I did attain is the life I live today, and that life is the erotic life.
It’s funny really – the erotic life is never anything that I knew I wanted for myself. It was never anything I set out to consciously experience or achieve. Unlike that beautiful Ralph Lauren magazine spread in Vogue with that dog and that husband and those three pretty children that I saw when I was sixteen. I certainly wanted that, but I really don’t have it. I tried to get it, but it was always elusive. On the other hand, the erotic life? Here it is. It’s what I have. And you certainly won’t read any journal entries hand written in 2005 that read, “When I grow up, I want to live the erotic life.”
This is probably because the erotic life and a sexual lifestyle aren’t ever presented as options to young adults as a wholesome, fulfilling way to live your adult life. If anything, the erotic life is presented as treacherous, poisonous and a punishment for broken people. Only sick people crave sex. Only sick people see sex in everything they do. Only sick people sit in the back of the room, fantasizing about fucking and then going home and masturbating non stop for hours on end.
Well, it turns out I’m sick. Quite sick, actually, because, yeah, all I think about is fucking. Day in and day out. And this is all I want to think about. And it’s not that I found the erotic life, it’s more that this is the only life that I can live. Waking up each morning with sex on my mind. Gravitating towards flirtation in ever interaction I have. Begging strangers to touch me. Crawling through the Internet seeking love or something like it. I have nowhere else to go. I have no other life to live.
I want to touch. I want to be touched. Always. Forever. But this isn’t just about sex, and this isn’t just about fucking. This isn’t about being bent over and ran through like a dog by some boy I just met. (Although sometimes it’s about that.) This is about feeling. This is about constantly feeling. This is about the sensation of skin on skin contact. The heart race of attraction. The fulfillment of desire. The expression of passion. This is about violence. And tenderness. And all the emotions and feelings that erupt in between those two poles. And sex, and sex, and sex, and sex. Not like an animal, though. Not like a mere animal mindlessly fucking away at anything out there, but with thought. There is so much thought in this. There is so much consciousness. There is so much awareness of the pleasure you feel while you fuck like an animal. And isn’t that pretty.
I guess there’s a reason why they don’t sell this dream to little girls.