Let’s talk about sex!  You can’t deny it.  Sex is part of everything.  Just take a look at the imitation of life for profit world.  “Sex sales, baby.”  How could I write anything that doesn’t touch on it in some fashion?  Even in a celibate state, its part of you — a sad part — but still part.  However to devote this dissertation to sex . . . do I know that much about sex?  This maybe short.

 

It has been one of my primary pursuits of late . . . the quest for good sex.  It doesn’t matter how good your last “best” sex was; the reality is, there’s always another guy out there with a bigger dick or a better trick.  Every time I think I have experienced the best sex possible and lost it, along comes somebody that blows that old standard away.  When its good its life affirming, its exhilarating, its intoxicating, its inspiring.  Is it any wonder we pursue it? 

 

I know I can’t live without it.  Skip the “can’t live with it part”; I can’t live without it, period.  I totally have need of sex in my life.  It’s an imperative.  I unquestionably am willing to put up with a lot of bullshit for good sex.  Hell, I’ve practically destroyed my life for what seemed at the time like great sex (dick/trick theory applied, but I just hadn’t developed it yet).  I can’t figure out why I only find that over-the-top connection with screwed up guys.  The bigger a mess he is, the better sex seems to be.  Perhaps I need to examine myself for masochistic tendencies.  Maybe it’s a like-attracting-like scenario, because I know I’m totally confused and a righteous pain in the ass.  My karma needs some work in this area, obviously.

 

I am hardly an expert on healthy sexual relationships.  I might say I could be, through experience, an expert on unhealthy ones, except I don’t think there is such a thing between consenting adults.  The repercussions of two personalities colliding as a result of sensual expression is usually the real problem, not the actual coming together of two physical and spiritual entities in ardent articulation.  You can have a perfectly gratifying, satisfying and harmonious physical union and inevitably somebody’s personal issues get in the way and fuck up the whole thing.  Its our egos, not ids that ruin it every time.  We all get loaded up with sexual baggage from the time we are born and it would seem the genders are working at cross purposes.  Nobody’s winning.

 

It’s considered men that freely engage in the act of sex are “studs” or “man-whores” and garner a certain amount of esteem from their fellows.  This is not wholly a positive thing for the male half of the populace.  Most of the poor bastards have all kinds of issues over performance, because of an impossible standard set by braggarts and a few seriously gifted and/or experienced virtuosos.  Men shoulder the burden when it comes to the quality, quantity and duration of the sexual experience.  Face it boys, us girls are capable of an unlimited number of orgasms and would go forever if you could.  The tables have turned and men are now expected to please their female partners.  Failure to invoke a passionate response and satisfy the fairer sex’s blossoming libertine verve is a direct blow to any man’s ego; therefore, his ability to perform creating a vicious circle.  They have to get us “off” or they are lacking.  Why do you think they invented Viagra?  That’s a tough gig.

 

Women on the other hand are taught to hold back their natural reaction to carnal coupling.  We aren’t supposed to like it too much.  Too often we won’t allow our selves to really let go and enjoy how amazingly blissful it can be.  And why?  We wouldn’t want to appear easy or slutty or be thought of as a nympho or whore.  Now would we?  There is such stigma over being appropriate and proper put on women by our male patriarchal society in a throwback attempt to protect the lineage of the male’s prodigy.  We are issued our societal chastity belts at birth.  That might have worked back when women were sperm repositories.  Today, however, we are struggling to become active participants, if not initiators in every facet of life.  Most of time we don’t know how to conduct ourselves.

 

Then there’s the whole chemistry thing.  I have made a conscience decision to enjoy sex, to let go and immerse myself in the euphoria when bequeathed the opportunity, regardless of what society and others may think of or label me.  The problem is it doesn’t happen with everyone, at least not to the same degree.  I have had bad sex (no chemistry).  I’ve had marginal sex (some chemistry).  I have had good sex (strong chemistry).  I’ve had great sex (extraordinary chemistry).  Moreover, I have had curl-your-toes, over-the-moon, mind-blowing sex (chemical meltdown).  There, of course, is some level of expertise involved, but it is so much more about the  visceral bond.  An inspired, amateur can be more pleasing with the right chemistry than any experienced veteran with whom you lack that elemental affinity.

 

My salacious behavior may brand me with a scarlet letter, but I’m not easy.  It’s been my experience that the magnetism is there from the start.  It’s a tangible phenomenon that we have no control over.  Attraction or chemistry, whatever it is or causes it, it can’t be manufactured or even upgraded.  If I don’t feel that allure, I know any lascivious liaison will be lackluster and it’s later for me.  On the other hand, there’s the flip side.  Those are the ones the “no sex on the first date” rule takes flight for.  I will honestly confess all my most erotically fulfilling bedfellows were guys I copulated with on the first date.   There is, of course, a whole range between the extremes . . . a wealth of honorable mentions.

 

So if all of this doesn’t make the whole thing hard enough, let us now introduce another complication.  I am proudly a member of a bludgeoning demographic . . . single women over 45.  We have raised our prodigy or decided not to reproduce.  We are not looking for mating partners or fathers for our young.  We own our homes and cars.  We have retirement plans, money markets, CDs, and stock portfolios.  Sisters’ got their own!  We are not looking for someone to support or shelter us.  Many of us have lived alone long enough to have come to love it and we don’t wish to share our space on a full-time basis.  We have our interests and activities.  We have lives we are happy with.  We make our own way in the world.   So what are we looking for?  Uncomplicated companionship and SEX!

 

While most of the men our age sowed their wild oats in their twenties and maybe into their early thirties, we are just coming into our sexual primes.  I’ve heard a plethora of scientific and medical reasons for this espoused over the years.  I’ll testify to the validation of it.  As I have grown older I have learned more about living in the moment.  Basking in the bliss of the here and now.  There’s no more appropriate occasion than the throes of passion to apply that principal.  Since I no longer have part of my attention on the kids, the bills, the hole in the bathroom tile, the possibility of getting pregnant, whose going to be elected President, whatever; I can devote my full and complete attention to enjoying carnal congress.

 

This liberation that I know I share with many women my age would appear on the surface to be a Godsend to male humanity.  It doesn’t seem to have worked out that way.  My masculine contemporaries seem to have done some changing and growing of their own though the years.  Most of them are looking for hearth and home, security for their old age.  Many have been married most of their lives and want the safety it provides.  Some are threatened by physically aggressive women.  Even the most experience of them can be overwhelmed by an unbridled and fully responsive bed partner.  They seem to have changed their focus to their future and a more placid lifestyle.  Who would have thought when we were young that eventually men would want serious commitment and women would want freedom to explore and express their potential?

 

Okay, so sex.  Gotta have it.  Ideally, with someone you “love.”  Lacking that good sex with a friend you share great chemistry with is a plausible substitute.  We, humans, pursue it, crave it, need it and generally, fuck it up, but we still go back for more, over and over again.  I see no reason not to enjoy it.  Call me a “ho” and I will take it as the acknowledgement of the sensual, sexual creature that I really am at a baser level.  Its all pretty confusing, but I’m having a good time.  HeHeHe.

 

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