Realization: Better For Choosing

I grew up, like a lot of people, on the  Disney True Love Conquers All fare that most U.S. kids get. With nary a mention of sexual desires in their main characters – despite always being caricatures of ideal men and women – it doesn’t really surprise me that in my particular case I did not at first connect love and sex together when I got to the Age Of Spontaneous Erection

Sex was a bit dirty. Dirty enough not to talk about in mixed company, definitely not with my family, double-defenitely not with anybody because I knew I was gay pretty much from day 1 on Earth. Love was something that got you a big musical number and wedding in front of half the kingdom. Sex was back room, love was front lawn. My first foray into a romantic relationship when I was 13 ended very quickly because I couldn’t get over the feeling of over-sexualization. He wanted to talk about sex, dream about sex, make plans for sex all the time. Nothing else would do. I couldn’t handle that. I thought it meant he didn’t love me.

Now I know it meant we were 13 and I had already mastered some serious repression on my part.

I am pretty loose with my morals for the most part. If you turn me on, and don’t say anything asinine in the course of a short conversation, I will probably get into your pants and have a jolly good time of it. Repressed? Me? Not in the course of friendly relations. Because I never feel very “casual” about the people I sleep with, even if I have no romantic designs on them. I would call most of them to be friends, or at least nice guys.

Point being that I would say that I qualify if not as relatively enlightened then probably as fairly relaxed in my sexual conduct and in the conduct of others. I’m not saying anything about being strapped down and paddled in a leather catsuit – Not my thing, and I don’t think it would ever be, but I’m glad there’s somebody who gets a thrill out of it. Just like there’s somebody out there lathering up their partner in whipped cream and sprinkles.

In t he case of my…romantic interests. I find myself much more reserved. I am literally terrified to touch the man of my affections without some leadership, some assurance. My body is imprisoned. I press against the bars, leaning in close, brushing his hand, but I’d never let myself loose without some invitation. I lose all my forward, flirty confidence and become boring, honestly. I can sit through an entire dinner and date, smiling and talking, and in my head I’m screaming “Please notice how badly I want you to touch me! Please let me know it’s okay to touch you!” the litany gets filthier and sexier the longer I go without any contact. It means that his arms, his hands, unleash epic storms of relief  in my soul, if they even graze me by a millimeter. 

At the base of this behaviour is my fear of failure. Watching many of my friends have sex with their boyfriend of a few weeks or a month maybe only to break-up and be heartbroken a few months later was, in a way, traumatizing. I saw what happened when you had sex – they used you up and threw you away out of boredom. I could never stand to be used like that, like some human cum rag, only to be thrown in the wash at the end. A part of me still believes that if I suspend physical contact, if I don’t have sex with somebody, they can’t leave me. I acknowledge that this is an illogical conclusion. Have you ever tried to reason with a battered heart? Let me know how it goes.

Choosing between love and sex is impossible, and in an ideal world you find both in plentiful enough supply to satisfy yourself. They can be scarce, so Ican’t afford to chase them away by bowing to fear and staying behind bars. I’m choosing to go against my fear, to be brazen, seductive. Because I’m smart enough to know when fear is wrong, and contrarian enough to go against it.

Anything to spite fear in the name of being happy, right?


One Response to “Realization: Better For Choosing”

  1. Shared Items - December 26, 2008 - Sugarbutch Chronicles Says:

    […] Better For Choosing […]

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