hijacked
(**warning** this post gets hijacked half-way through by musings on sex. so if you don't want to read about sex, read until you hit the 'too much information' warning.)
My study day was partially hijacked by my friend Leo who insisted I come "study" with her in a coffeeshop on Alberta. Considering she called as I was walking out the door to cycle up to Alberta to study at a coffeeshop, how could I say no?
Needless to say, nothing got studied until Leo left at 1 for a lunch date. Have I mentioned that Leo is one of my oldest, dearest friends? That I've known her since 1993 and that we met in a mud-puddle when we were 18? Good times. Leo is my blast from the South and whenever we hang out, an accent comes out of me that I can't control or fake or do on command. It's kind of wonderful and frightening all at once. I love Leo.
Anyway, Leo and I always have great conversations, usually about sex and almost always about whichever woman she's totally obsessing over at the moment. Right now it's a super-hot friend of hers who is ambiguously flirting with Leo, who, in turn, is very *un*ambiguously flirting back -- pushing and pushing the envelope which is Leo's specialty, second only to obsessing over the potential consequences of the envelope-pushing she's just done. I listen to a lot of "what do you think it means if she says..." yadda-yadda-yadda. But because I love Leo, I indulge her.
Today we talked about the value of maybe not acting on every single whim of desire that strikes. And also maybe not being totally tortured by every unkissed lip and every unfucked crush. It's a liberating concept. Although, a healthy sex life is good too. (File this next part under "too much information" and stop reading if you don't want to know about sex toys.) I told Leo about my recent adventures cleaning out my sack of sex toys. A very neglected sack of toys they are -- everything was dusty and in need of a bath, having been gathered from the far corners and packed in haste when I moved out of CB's. I piled up all the multicolored, lovely, silly looking little guys on my bathroom sink where they sat for a couple of days because I was too lazy to deal with them. Every time I walked into the bathroom I was startled anew by the festive display. Funny little pile. So last night I finally dealt with all of them and packed them all back up into a nice, big plastic zip-lock freezer bag which will keep the dust off.
Those particular toys are nice and all, but they seem to function, for me, more like sexual talismans than real elements of my actual sex-life. There's something playful and exciting and fun in them, but when it comes to actually *using* them... I don't know. They just don't see a lot of action. And there's something a little sad about that -- something I can't put my finger on exactly... so to speak... There seems to be a hint of missed potential -- seeing that pile on the counter every time I walked in my bathroom, I felt a tiny start of excitement -- there was a hint of promise in that pile. But, will that promise ever be delivered? And what *is* that promise exactly? It's something that extends well beyond the actual intended function of any of those toys -- it's something in their essence. The promise of adventure and risk and excitment and... something else... something in their vibrant colors and slick plasticity -- something modern, inorganic, hip, radical, playful, frivolous. Something extravagant -- something outside the bare minimum of required activity.
One of my biggest complaints about strap-on sex has always been the disruption in the flow of the act of sex to get the strap-on arranged and ready to go. It's a relatively minimal diversion, but it has always felt clunky and inorganic. Now, though, as I reflect on the mystique of my pile of sex-toys, I realize there's something about that added element of complication that's actually pretty hot. It's the committment to the extra planning, the extra time -- the extravagance of going beyond the bare minimum to something more dramatic, more orchestrated, more complicated and more, sometimes, satisfying. Obviously, if your partner isn't into strap-ons or penetration, this is not a committment that's really going to pay off. That's not the point. The point is in understanding the allure of my pile of sex toys -- the promise -- I think maybe the promise lies simply in the committment they signify to taking sex above and beyond it's organically wonderful, natural elements and into some unknown space -- maybe a bigger space, a space set aside for frivolous exploration and extravagant adventure. Decadence and desire and something more than what is just necessary for sex to happen and be lovely.
I'm starting to sound a bit like Camille Paglia. I guess there's nothing wrong with that.
My study day was partially hijacked by my friend Leo who insisted I come "study" with her in a coffeeshop on Alberta. Considering she called as I was walking out the door to cycle up to Alberta to study at a coffeeshop, how could I say no?
Needless to say, nothing got studied until Leo left at 1 for a lunch date. Have I mentioned that Leo is one of my oldest, dearest friends? That I've known her since 1993 and that we met in a mud-puddle when we were 18? Good times. Leo is my blast from the South and whenever we hang out, an accent comes out of me that I can't control or fake or do on command. It's kind of wonderful and frightening all at once. I love Leo.
Anyway, Leo and I always have great conversations, usually about sex and almost always about whichever woman she's totally obsessing over at the moment. Right now it's a super-hot friend of hers who is ambiguously flirting with Leo, who, in turn, is very *un*ambiguously flirting back -- pushing and pushing the envelope which is Leo's specialty, second only to obsessing over the potential consequences of the envelope-pushing she's just done. I listen to a lot of "what do you think it means if she says..." yadda-yadda-yadda. But because I love Leo, I indulge her.
Today we talked about the value of maybe not acting on every single whim of desire that strikes. And also maybe not being totally tortured by every unkissed lip and every unfucked crush. It's a liberating concept. Although, a healthy sex life is good too. (File this next part under "too much information" and stop reading if you don't want to know about sex toys.) I told Leo about my recent adventures cleaning out my sack of sex toys. A very neglected sack of toys they are -- everything was dusty and in need of a bath, having been gathered from the far corners and packed in haste when I moved out of CB's. I piled up all the multicolored, lovely, silly looking little guys on my bathroom sink where they sat for a couple of days because I was too lazy to deal with them. Every time I walked into the bathroom I was startled anew by the festive display. Funny little pile. So last night I finally dealt with all of them and packed them all back up into a nice, big plastic zip-lock freezer bag which will keep the dust off.
Those particular toys are nice and all, but they seem to function, for me, more like sexual talismans than real elements of my actual sex-life. There's something playful and exciting and fun in them, but when it comes to actually *using* them... I don't know. They just don't see a lot of action. And there's something a little sad about that -- something I can't put my finger on exactly... so to speak... There seems to be a hint of missed potential -- seeing that pile on the counter every time I walked in my bathroom, I felt a tiny start of excitement -- there was a hint of promise in that pile. But, will that promise ever be delivered? And what *is* that promise exactly? It's something that extends well beyond the actual intended function of any of those toys -- it's something in their essence. The promise of adventure and risk and excitment and... something else... something in their vibrant colors and slick plasticity -- something modern, inorganic, hip, radical, playful, frivolous. Something extravagant -- something outside the bare minimum of required activity.
One of my biggest complaints about strap-on sex has always been the disruption in the flow of the act of sex to get the strap-on arranged and ready to go. It's a relatively minimal diversion, but it has always felt clunky and inorganic. Now, though, as I reflect on the mystique of my pile of sex-toys, I realize there's something about that added element of complication that's actually pretty hot. It's the committment to the extra planning, the extra time -- the extravagance of going beyond the bare minimum to something more dramatic, more orchestrated, more complicated and more, sometimes, satisfying. Obviously, if your partner isn't into strap-ons or penetration, this is not a committment that's really going to pay off. That's not the point. The point is in understanding the allure of my pile of sex toys -- the promise -- I think maybe the promise lies simply in the committment they signify to taking sex above and beyond it's organically wonderful, natural elements and into some unknown space -- maybe a bigger space, a space set aside for frivolous exploration and extravagant adventure. Decadence and desire and something more than what is just necessary for sex to happen and be lovely.
I'm starting to sound a bit like Camille Paglia. I guess there's nothing wrong with that.
posted by reasonably prudent poet at 9:18 PM
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