Carnal Embrace

It has come to my attention that the Sex on Tuesday column is “vulgar” and “disgusting.” In one e-mail, a student asked that I move away from the genitalia. The thing is, I’m completely taken with the body. It’s where it all starts, isn’t it?

He was upset with “poon.” Honey, we’ve got bigger battles to fight. “Poon” is hardly vulgar. Vulgar language is ingrained sexism, inherent racism and some forms of Latin. Cogito ergo I come. And now I conquer.

Vulgar language today is hegemonic. We use these words every day, words that supposedly clean up and push back the shame of our bodies. Nobody bats an eye when “pudendum” appears in a textbook or a work of literature. It sounds so Latin, so reformed and so clean, partly because you don’t even know what the hell it means.
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Contrary to popular belief, the orgasm is not the meaning of life. It’s not even the essence of sex with a serious partner. An orgasm doesn’t assure you of love and it sure as hell doesn’t get you into med school. So if it isn’t all that and a bag of no-additives, organic, baked potato chips, then why is it so important to have one (or multiple)?

Well, here’s the thing: Having orgasms is important if you’re not having orgasms. Are you still with me on this one? It’s the craving to have something you desperately lack or want and to ultimately prove something to yourself and to your partner. It’s supposed to be an easy measure of enjoyment and satisfaction.

Plus, we put so much pressure on the climax. It’s the grand finale, the world-rockin’ zenith of human pleasure. Right?
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Her rapist didn’t give her a chance to say no. He was unassuming and shorter than she was in her high-heeled boots, which he later told her to keep on as he tugged her pants off her sluggish body. He chatted with her in a room full of strangers and made sure she was taken care of, giving her more alcohol after her five or six beers. She couldn’t remember his name.

He led her down to the fraternity’s basement. She doesn’t remember his face, or what happened next. She remembers reaching to feel the condom on his penis because she couldn’t feel the rubber against her vagina.

He saw her again the next night, and she suddenly remembered his glasses. She met him again, partly because she didn’t know what happened was rape and partly because she wanted to see his face. Again, she drank to excess.
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I don’t think Alexander Graham Bell ever had something like 1-800-WET-BUTT in mind when he invented the telephone. I think he was more of a tits man, to be honest.

Whoever perverted the magic of the telephone, I applaud you. Before then, we simply had letter sex, which didn’t last past foreplay even when the Pony Express got involved. One can only maintain an erection for so long—unfortunately.

In college, phone sex is the way of life when your partner goes to a different school. It makes the relationship slightly less strained, but it’s still not easy. Like sex with other people (though not necessarily masturbation), phone sex is only appropriate when you have the room to yourself, so good luck in that triple with the computer science major who never fucking leaves the room. You know who you are.
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