Viva la Revolución! Or not.

So this funga business?  It’s here to stay, isn’t it?  What I thought was a passing fad, like bendover and awful mohawks, is now an institution, complete with rules and everything.  Ladies and gentlemen, the sexual revolution is here!  Or is it?  Does the fact that we can now go out and get laid any day of the week mean we’re more sexually liberated than our parents, or does it just mean that we have more time, and resources, to engage in foolishness?  Is chips funga our brave new day?

As promised, today we’re headed into the sewer.  You know the drill, fragile people exit stage left, the rest of you remove all valuables and such like.  Incidentally, the last time we were rolling around in the muck, things went south, santorum south, so this disclaimer shall from now henceforth cover the comments as well, just to be on the safe side.  Have you braced yourselves?  Good.  Let’s get on with it shall we? 

When I first started dating, way waaay back when, not only was sex not on the menu, it was still roaming free out in the badlands waiting to be hunted down, it was a very remote possibility is all I'm saying.  Keep in mind that I’m talking from a ‘good little girl’s’ perspective, sheltered childhood and such like (but clearly that was many years ago, no?).  The routine those days was simple, meet a nice boy, start dating, allegedly fall madly in love, eventually make love (read shag) with your (then) soul mate, eventually break up with the (no longer) soul mate, then do it all over again, and then again…  In theory that’s how it’s supposed to go right?  Problem is, as I got older, and less sheltered, it became a case of dating the men for the sex, not the other way around as would be assumed.  No great harm done I suppose, but perhaps my life would have been easier if I hadn’t dated said men, seeing as how they were almost always idiots.  If nothing else, I wouldn’t have wasted precious time, time I will never get back I might add.  These days, older and wiser, or simply jaded, I think dating and sex are best separated for the purposes of clarity, the combination of hormones (mine) and stupidity (theirs) often makes for (not so) minor disaster (see archive).  In theory, this would mean that la revolucion and I are well suited for each other, no?  No.  Unfortunately, my desire to separate the two does not equate to random sex.  Damn it!

Now some will take that to mean I’m saying don’t screw the person you’re dating, those would be the believers amongst us, whatever rocks your boat folks, I’m not here to sway you from your path.  The deviants on the other hand see this as a justification for funga type nonsense and that too is fine, just stay away from me with your foolishness, we’re not on the same level.  Thing is, this is not an either or situation, I think sometimes you can have the cake, and eat it.  As scary as it is, I’ve come to appreciate sex for what it is and not what it ‘should’ or ‘could’ be, thankfully I no longer have the voices of various idiots in my head, giving me the ‘making love is a special bond between two partners’ crap or ‘if you’re not getting fucked on the regular there’s something wrong with you’ nonsense.  I’ve been around the block a couple of times so I have a rough idea what’s going on, I know…wait for it…the lay of the land.  That was quite witty, no?  No?  Moving swiftly along. 

Most of us tend to look at sex in one of two ways, either as some mystical act of true love that must only be shared with that ‘special someone’ or as a basic human function akin to taking a piss, and while I understand both perspectives, I don’t agree with either.  I’m a subscriber to a more hedonist school of thought.  I think sex is about pleasure, and a true hedonist knows to treat pleasure with the respect it deserves, especially because it is increasingly hard to find in these days of instant, and unsatisfying, gratification.  Yes, I realise looking at sex as a pleasure would support the gorging approach we see around us, but that’s why I said ‘true hedonist’.  Cruising around the city on a Friday night, you can’t help but see what the blind pursuit of pleasure has led us to, but that’s not the complete story is it?  Just because some idiots choose to go out and drink themselves silly every weekend, that doesn’t mean that those of us fond of the (not so) occasional tipple are all useless drunks.  Similarly, the horny bastards running around shagging each other senseless have no bearing on the rest of us who like to get freaky every once in a while.  The difference lies in how we do it, and why.  My theory?  Pleasure is not just in the consumption, it’s in the pursuit as well.  Put differently, it’s about being a discerning customer, quality not quantity.  See, the thing these idiots are missing out on is the value of the hunt, they’ve forgotten, or simply don’t know, that good stuff never comes easy.   

Truth is, sex is not hard to come by, especially these days when a hook up is thrown at you as casually as a handshake.  Good sex, on the other hand, is not that easy to find, but it’s doable, all it requires is a little more vetting of suitable candidates.  Great sex is a whole other ball game, that requires determination and focus.  ‘What’s the difference between them?’ you ask.  ‘Step into my dungeon innocent one, let me show you,’ she says, devious gleam in her eye.  The way I see it, sex is simply about getting yourself off, it’s wanking with audience participation.  Good sex is about getting each other off, it’s more interactive, there’s give and take, I do you then you do me and then we do...us.  Great sex, however, is about pleasure, not just getting off, the act is as important as the end result.  You don’t agree, do you?  Think back to the most wondrous lay you ever had.  What image just came to mind?  Is it the loud orgasm you had after 30 minutes of (not so) furious action?  Or is it the way she moaned when you thrust a little deeper?  Thought so. 

Giving pleasure is deliberate, isn’t it?  To give pleasure, and to receive it, you have to work a bit harder, do your homework, past experience notwithstanding.  You have to take time to learn how to be a great lover, study your subject, do research, write a thesis, even sit an odd exam once in a while.  It’s part direct instruction, ‘I like it when you touch me here…’; it’s part trial and error, ‘What happens when I pinch this like that?  Oooohhh…’; hell, it’s part dumb luck, ‘Did I spill some soup on you?  Let me lick it off…’.  They don’t call it sex education for nothing people.  Listen, you wouldn’t try to cook a 5-course meal without taking basic cooking lessons, would you?  Then why on earth would you think that shagging someone, without getting to know a few relevant details about them first, could possibly get you an earth shattering ka-pow?  The only way that happens is if the stranger in question is a professional, in which case you have nothing to do with it so stop bragging. 

My problem with the one night stand is just that, the one night.  What are the odds that on night number one (and only) a complete stranger will rock my world?  How would he even know where to begin?  My concern here is not so much that I don’t know the man, nor he I, I’m concerned that the sex will be crap, because I don’t know the man, nor he I.  Quality is key folks, key.  So how does one discern quality, before the act?  Well you have to sit down and have the talk.  What talk?  You know the flirty, and somewhat filthy, conversation where you (selectively) share your histories, tendencies, fantasies, such like nonsense?  That’s the talk.  That conversation will tell me everything I need to know about a man’s sexual personality, if he’s a nice guy with suitably freaky tendencies, or if he’s pretending to be a freaky guy but in reality he just wants to cuddle.  The catch is this, to have this conversation you have to get to know someone a little better first, lest you get slapped for asking a stranger, ‘So, do you like to suck toes or are you a finger man?’  Certain questions require a level of intimacy that cannot be achieved over one drink, is all I’m saying.  The only times I neglected to have that conversation was when I fungad.   

FYI, technically speaking, women over 30 cannot be fungwad, what with our various issues, chip(s) on shoulders and such like.  Then again, I was barely 30 when it happened, so perhaps I was, in fact, the fungee, who knows?  I digress. 

Yes, I fungad.  A whopping two number men!  Wow!  Don’t get scared, I didn’t do both at the same time, there’s no way my OCD ass could possibly be that efficient at chipo-ing.  Or that lucky, BOGOF deals never apply to men, unfortunately, shame man.  And how did I funga?  With the (lack of) focus and determination that you can only get from idiot friends including, but not limited to, my friend John, although it's more likely it his cheaper cousin JJ.  Why did I funga?  Foolishness.  I was out there trying to experience the widely touted freedom, brave new day and what not.  Well, that and I was randy as hell, thanks to man drama and hanging around Paco (sexy bastard!).  And how was it?  Uneventful.  Not particularly satisfying would be more accurate, by my own definition it was just sex.  In retrospect, I think I would have been better off staying home alone with the lovely Priscilla.  I know, I know, it’s sad, and pathetic, but it’s true.  I blame myself though, I didn’t do my homework, if I had taken the time to talk to those men, I would never have shagged them, seeing as how it turned out they didn’t speak my language too well, at all actually.  Since then I haven’t even tried to funga, and I don’t plan to either, life is too short to waste chasing what I consider crap sex.  That said, given my recent (mis)adventures, I will probably be chasing great sex the rest of my life, with that in mind perhaps I should never say never, no?  No.

That’s my beef with chips funga, it’s not so much the randomness, although that holds little to no appeal, it’s that it reduces sex to a cheap transaction of quick pursuit and mindless release.  The obsession with quantity, rather than quality, offends every fibre in my hedonist being.  It’s the equivalent of a teenager guzzling a bottle of single malt older than they are, in an attempt to get high as fast as possible, bila savouring the (alleged) woody notes et al.  It’s just wrong, treating something so valuable, so well crafted, with ignorance and disrespect... so wrong!  

As much as I love the freedom of being able to seek pleasure any time I want, courtesy of the revolution, I know better than to assume that it will be easy.  Nor should it be.  Nothing worth having ever is.  Some things have to be earned my friend, it’s better that way.