Would you just shag me already?

You didn’t really think the month would end without the mandatory trip to the sewer?  Come on now, I must be controversial, no?  Slight detour, how now?  Here I was thinking I’m presenting sober discussions pertaining to our sexuality in this confusing age of sexual freedom, androgynous behaviour and commercial (s)exploitation, and all the while all I’ve been doing is titillating your perverted little minds?  Shame man!  Detour over, shall we proceed with the perversion?  You know the drill, sensitive types leave now.  Seriously, leave, please, because if I get one more ‘but what about love woiyee?’ email, I will track you down and smack you, why do you think I call it the sewer and issue elaborate disclaimers?  The rest of you, disrobe accordingly and follow me into the muck.  I will swear profusely (possibly more than usual), and use crude imagery and filthy puns that will make your panties blush (not really, but I’ve been itching to use that phrase so…), hell, I may even (verbally) sodomise a politician, or a plagiarising columnist, with a broom handle, if I have time, because that’s how I, make that we, do here, no? 

What's love got to do, got to do with it,
What's love but a second hand emotion,
What's love got to do, got to do with it,
Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken…

I’m guessing most of you recognise the soundtrack, if not from back in the 80’s when it came out, then from the more recent movie of the same name (a role for which Angela Basset should have won that Oscar she was robbed dammit, robbed!).  This is one of those songs that you struggle to classify in any one particular genre, it’s a blend of Rock and Roll, pop ballad, R&B and reggae (or is it calypso?), it’s a little schizophrenic.  And the situation isn’t helped by Ms Turner’s brilliant vocals, one minute she’s crooning a seductive serenade, the next minute she’s wailing in true rocker fashion, then she’s growling like a vintage soulster, and then back to traditional gospel, and all in one song.  Now when one of you younglings shows me a Rihanna sing-along with similar depth, I shall forever stop talking shit about your ignorant behinds.  I’m just saying, there’s talent, then there’s the talent.  Moving on swiftly, ‘What’s love got to do with it?’ is either an anti-love anthem, an ode to sex without unnecessary complications, or a satirical look at relationships.  It all depends on how happy, or drunk, you are.  Just for the record, for the purposes of today’s rant, I’ve chosen to treat it as an ode to the simple pleasure that is sexual attraction. 

Us mature (read old) single types like to pretend that we’re above such base things as sex; talking about how we’re looking for something more meaningful than mindless rutting; how we’re using our time alone to make ourselves…better; how no sex is better than bad sex, this said with a smirk when the couples are busy whining about their crap sex lives; how no amount of sex is worth the trouble of another broken heart…  Bullshit!  Folks, we’re not always looking for happily ever afters, complete with 6 kids, a dog and a station wagon.  Sometimes, only sometimes mind you, sometimes we just want to have sex.  Gasp!  The shock of it!  Unless said singleton is a virgin, I guarantee you they have had the itch at one point or another, and if it’s been long enough since their last shag, they’re climbing the walls in frustration, craving sex like an addict craves smack.  They, we, are gagging for it.  No really, gagging.  All we need is that one genius who can provide the much needed shag without turning it into a bloody Greek tragedy. 

You must understand though the touch of your hand makes my pulse react,
That it's only the thrill of boy meeting girl, opposites attract,

It's physical,
Only logical,
You must try to ignore that it means more than that…

Conventional wisdom has it that women cannot separate sex and emotions, that for us it’s always more than ‘just sex’.  Well I hate to break it to you, but that’s not entirely true, and by that I mean it’s a blatant lie.  Sometimes, only sometimes mind you, we like to have sex because we like having sex.  Hang on, I should probably say ‘I’ rather than ‘we’, lest ‘I’ stand accused of championing the moral decay of our womenfolk or such like nonsense.  I, (not) Alex, have, on occasion, had sex with a man I was not madly in love with.  And this sex did not make me love him, hell, in one memorable incident I even began to like the idiot less, and that’s disturbing considering I barely liked the man to begin with.  Now you know I’m not a whore (I hope?), far from it, if only because I am disturbingly reluctant to shag a stranger, which automatically precludes, you know, whoring.  Thing is, that doesn’t mean that I’m looking to form a deep and meaningful connection with every man I shag.  Yes, I will get to know the man, but only so I can figure out his sexual personality, and by extension, figure out if the shag will be worth my time.  That and I’m desperately trying to filter out the batshit insane men I keep meeting, with limited success if my recent past is anything to go by, but imagine how much worse it would be if I wasn’t screening?  Scary thought, no? 

The point to my (sexual) declaration of independence is not to make some misguided point about how women can have no strings sex just like men, as much as I hate to admit it, we cant.  We’re built different, and I don’t mean the nonsense about our emotions coming in the way of everything, I mean we are literally not built for endless, and mindless, rutting.  Our lady bits can only take so much abuse before they shut down, claiming fatigue; throw in the link between our minds and our arousal, and you end up with a situation where even the most willing woman would struggle to shag continuously, not unless you throw in an incentive like money, or intoxication.  I’m not trying to say that women can or should whore like men, all I’m saying is that once in a while they want to.  Nothing too dramatic, just the occasional romp with a man who will not be expecting forever immediately thereafter.  See the thing is, the men we like to shag are usually the men we should not be shagging.  I said this many months ago, and then proceeded to completely disregard my own (not) brilliance, the men who are great in bed are always supremely fucked up individuals. 

You know how men automatically categorise women as either ‘possible mother of my children’ or ‘chick I want to fuck sideways’?  Women do it too, all the time, even the sideways bit.  We are not so foolish that when we meet a man whore, we begin to harbour illusions of foreverness and monogamy; or when we meet a shy guy who gets flustered when he gets so much as a glimpse of thigh, we won’t expect him to be open to a lesbian spank inferno.  We’re smart enough to figure what sort of deviant (or not) you are, and then we’ll treat you accordingly.  Let me put it this way, if I want deep and meaningful, I’ll go after the quiet guy in the corner, but if I want a rocking good time, and nothing else, then I’ll pounce on the flirtatious idiot doing (body?) shots at the counter.  My problem, and this is the point to all this, is when the idiot turns around and tries to make like the quiet guy, because he figures the only way he’ll get to shag me is if he pretends to be a…wait for it…nice guy.  Why would you do that, man?  Wait, these buggers do not deserve to be called men, they shall now be referred to as man-shaped objects.  What the hell man(-shaped object)? 

All I’m trying to say, very badly, is that a woman doesn’t always approach a man with a view to making him her man.  Sometimes she just wants to lease him for a night, or a week or two, depending.  And that’s where the man whore comes in.  You may not know this, but a good man whore is very hard to find.  I’m not talking about those idiots who’ll shag anything that remotely resembles an adult female, those geniuses are always in plenty.  I’m talking about the discerning customers who know the difference between a shag and a good shag, the token few who place quality above quantity; they’re the high priced escorts to the streetwalkers that are the rest of the whores.  Unfortunately, all the ones I knew seem to have gone into (possibly forced) retirement, and the buggers clearly didn’t engage in any succession planning, because the young ones coming up have no clue whatsoever.  Which is why I shall now endeavour to teach them a little something. 

These days it seems that men think seduction is all about talk and very little action.  Quite simply, some of these buggers are unable, or unwilling, to do what it takes to seal the deal.  They will chat up a woman for ages, dithering like idiots, feigning interest in everything from Charity’s spoiler presidential bid to Caroline’s cut and paste (and I use this term most loosely) journalism, all in an attempt to convince the woman that they are men of depth and substance, and not the man whores they so clearly are.  Now you know I favour the intellectual approach to seduction, but that’s for men who haven’t made a name for themselves by shagging anything in a skirt.  A proud man whore has no business making a woman sit through a soliloquy on whatever (not) brilliant thoughts are running through his mind, that’s cruel and unusual punishment.  Just get on with it man(-shaped object)!  I know you think your silky words are the reason for your fame, but they’re not.  You’re famous because of your smooth moves, so stop talking and start shagging, because the harsh reality is, the only reason a sane (read grown ass) woman would approach a man whore in the first place is because she wants his ass.  Not his mind, or his wallet, but his ass. 

It may seem to you that I'm acting confused when you're close to me,
If I tend to look dazed I've read it some place I've got cause to be,
There's a name for it,
There's a phrase that fits,
But whatever the reason, you do it for me…

Gents, if a woman makes no attempt to find out your last name, or where you live, or what you do, or what you like for breakfast, then its likely that she’s not interested in your (alleged) depth.  She’s operating on the ‘what you see is what you get’ principle, and what she saw was a man willing and able to get down and dirty without the false pretence of emotional attachment.  More to the point, if you parade yourself as some sort of sex god who will fulfil my every fantasy, then you, sir, had better be ready to put your mouth where my honey is.  You can’t be talking shit about how you’re the best I’ll ever have, and then when I tell you to prove it, you start shaking and stammering like a little girl, talking about how you want to get to know me, really know me…  Eh?  You cant have your cake and eat it, either you’re a whore or you’re not.  This business of men pretending to be deep to get laid, or pretending to be studs to find love (it happens), that shit is false advertising, and its bloody confusing so stop doing it. 

For all you amateur whores, wanna-be ‘playas’ and man-shaped objects out here, if you’re going to walk around pretending to be ‘the man’, then at the very least make sure you can back it up with (real) actions, because if it looks like a duck, and it walks like a duck, and it even talks like a duck, then I expect it to fuck like a bloody duck, dammit, even if its nothing more than a brightly coloured chicken. 

What's love got to do, got to do with it,
What's love but a sweet old fashioned notion,
What's love got to do, got to do with it,
Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken…

I think I’ve just hit a new low in the sewer…