Posted by juliettex on Sun 5 Apr 09, 3:05 PM to juliettex's blog.
(Hey, this time it really is XXX-rated - sort of! Another recent excerpt from my main blog thenewadventuresofjuliette.blogspot.com, containing some highly personal and potentially shocking revelations...)
I was watching MTV the other day when I found myself thinking about the word, nay the entire concept, 'sexy.' As seen in the videos of Kanye West and Girls Aloud and, God have mercy on us all, the Pussy Cat Dolls. A ubiquitous, ultra-commercialised, uber-aspirational concept, which could best be defined by the following words. Glamorous. Stylish. Covetable. Airbrushed. Perfect.
Ironically, in my opinion, there is very little on God's green earth which is less sexy than actual sex.
Just to clarify, this isn't the opinion of some chilly, joyless, antiseptic puritan. I am sensual. Massively so. Tastes, scents, textures, sounds. My ideal world would have the texture of raw silk, the smell of Diptyque Tubereuse room spray, the sound of waves lapping at an off-season Puerto Banusian beach, and the taste of Haagen Dazs Pralines and Cream ice cream (IMHO, Haagen Dazs pisses all over Ben and Jerry's - if that image isn't too disturbingly surreal. Far as I'm concerned, Ben and Jerry can take their annoyingly-named, insanely over-rated product range and stick it up their Caramel Chew Chew.)
Ironically, this sensuality is the exact same reason why I am, to be brutally honest, something of a closet asexual. Stripped of glamorous surroundings, flattering candlelight, romantic anticipatory dinner, and (crucially) booze, the actual physical act seems to have been deliberately designed to be as sensually revolting an experience as it's possible to get this side of cleaning out the plughole in the shower. And if, as I have said before, there was some way I could never shag again while leaving the rest of my life entirely unaffected - well, let's just say I could finally come off the Pill.
Even in fantasy, now I come to think about it, I'm nearly always thinking about situations where all parties concerned have their pants on. For me, the preliminary lead-up is almost ridiculously more exciting than the main event - like a concert where Metallica are opening for Westlife. This is why I find the flickering glances and lingering touches and simmering fully-clothed tension of e.g. Dangerous Liaisons about a billion times hotter than watching some bloke's hairy arse going up and down in e.g. Fuck Truck 2 (which really didn't deserve its Best Picture Oscar, in my humble opinion. Then again, sequels are never as good as the original, are they?)
The more fanciful variety of romantic fiction never ceases to annoy me. Because apparently their authors and I are living on completely different planets - and to be honest, I'm bloody jealous. I'd kill my own granny to emigrate to the erotic, raunchy planet with the devastatingly sexy men and the muscular buttocks and the taut bronze flesh and the helpless moans of ecstasy. Where the smell of sex is intoxicatingly arousing, and the musky whiff of male sweat releases a wild rush of primitive female desire.
Unfortunately, I'm stuck on the crap planet with the saggy arses, fanny farts, revolting-tasting spunk and Brazilian waxes that grow out faster than I can say 'Jesus, I only had the fucking thing done five days ago.' (A problem which is easily remedied from the front view, but underneath is a very different story. If you have ever tried waxing your own labia majora and arse crack, you are either spectacularly double jointed or a reckless fool to rival Evel Knievel.)
The psychological aspect of shagging doesn't do anything for me, either. I know there are some women who find the whole thing flattering, as if it's testimony to their beauty and desirability that some bloke wants to shag them. Some time ago, during a drunken night of sexual confessions with a friend, said friend actually said she got a total ego-boost when she was snogging a bloke and felt that he had a hard-on.
She said that it made her think proudly, 'I did that.'
To this very day, I don't understand this way of thinking at all. Because surely the briefest contemplation could tell any halfway sensible woman that it's hardly a compliment. An inflatable sheep could 'do that.' A 40 stone granny with a visible moustache could 'do that', assuming she was posing naked in the cheaper kind of porn.
I mean Jesus, look at some top-shelf mags some time.
If you really need this point driven home with the proverbial sledgehammer, go to Amsterdam and have a little wander round the sex shops.
There are porn mags featuring vomiting dwarves, for God's sake.
Doesn't mean you're going to see a vomiting dwarf on the cover of Vogue any time soon.
I find the the actual mechanics of it unfailingly embarrassing, too. Not in a hot BDSM 'erotic humiliation' sort of way. Just prosaically awkward and 'yuk.' Personally, I blame it on the human genitals. It's like they were specifically designed to be as ugly as possible. You'd think it would be impossible to create something as repulsive-looking as a scrotum by accident. You'd have to really sit down and think about it before you even came close.
The Almighty Creator was on top form when he did kittens, baby elephants and Afghan hounds. But he really phoned it in when it came to fannies.
Maybe a lot of my dislike for the actual physical act of sex stems from physical self-consciousness and insecurity. Maybe it would all be different if I could step into a better body for a few hours. If I could pull my whole skin off, hang myself up in some corporeal locker, and briefly hire the impossibly taut, toned, tanned perfection of an FHM calendar girl instead. So I could rest secure in the certain knowledge that, at least for the next few hours, I had no bad angles or wonky bits or unfortunate folds round the middle when I bent over in a certain way. And no more unwanted hair or cellulite than you'd find on a nude Barbie doll. And an undercarriage painstakingly designed by Playboy-reading cosmetic surgeons.
Maybe then, I'd live, sleep, eat and breathe sex - and, if only for those few hours, I'd finally see what all the fuss was about. Maybe, wearing the FHM body, I'd suddenly feel compelled to go out to a random bar, pull a gorgeous stranger, drag him home with me, rip his clothes off - and writhe about in feverish, orgiastic, animalistic passion like a good 'un.
Then again - maybe not. Because some of the biggest sex-mad slappers I've ever known have been built like Beryl Cook ladies. Like all great fictional characters, The Fat Slags are based on a real and universal truth.
Maybe, then, it's just inherent - a natural-born thing. Yet another example of how I've been cursed all my life with the sort of luck you'd associate with reckless archaeologists who've recently broken into notorious Egyptian pyramids. When God was handing out the rampant libidos, I was queueing up for a third helping of appetite.
To say I think about food more than I think about sex is a spectacular understatement. If I thought about sex one hundred millionth as often as I think about food, I'd immediately jack in work to become a hooker - and I'd be the only fucker in London who really enjoyed their job.
Which is a bit of a bummer, as this immediately closes off the quickest and easiest avenue to literary stardom. In today's sex-obsessed age, an uncontrollable sexual appetite - coupled with the ability to pick up a pen or use a keyboard - is a feminine fast-track to fame and fortune. But who in the name of the Holy Father wants to read about a woman with an uncontrollable physical appetite?
I can see the huge pile of glossy paperback books in Smiths now, can't you?
'Girl With a One Tracker Mind.'
'Read all about my rampant no-holds-barred orgy with a virile Romana pizza and a 12" tub of Haagen Dazs.'
'My fantasy about devouring a whole packet of white chocolate cookies - on the boardroom table.'
'I peeled his jacket off slowly, and drizzled melted butter over his warm, tender flesh. Unfortunately, he was a potato.'
Perhaps one day, I'll just have to come out as a sago-masochist.
Either that, or live in the murky shadows of society - and constantly fear discovery as a closet pud-ophile...
J x
| 5 Apr 09, 3:13 PM fifesnicest1 UK(KY), 8 yrs  |
Well that brightened up an otherwise boring Sunday. Had a good giggle, so its not just me then. s |
| 5 Apr 09, 3:51 PM bobbi_orkney UK(IV), 5 yrs  |
I remember seeing many thing but never vomiting dwarves, I must have missed that part of Snow White! |
| 5 Apr 09, 5:46 PM juliettex UK, 3 yrs |
Maybe you didn't go to the right porn brokers  J x |
| 10 Apr 09, 9:43 PM bobbi_orkney UK(IV), 5 yrs |
Oh, I've been to plenty of those in my time! I do remember some strange stuff in Germany that was very specialised!
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