You’re overthinking it.
I confess: I’ve never bent over for the beast with two backs or done any variation of the no-pants dance, and while the closest to coitus I come is muttering “dicks out for Harambe” to myself every time I urinate, I’m not unfamiliar with the passionate practice.
Rest assured, it’s ruining your life.
As a teen I made a habit of correcting inquiring women who asked, “Do guys really think about sex every 7 seconds?” “No,” I would chuckle. “It’s more like every 3 seconds.” Oh, those days of innocence. I thought I was joking back then, but as every article of twenty-something angst teems with thoughts on intercourse, I feel like the joke has become a reality.
Though a Snapchat story I once saw debunks this notion in research, I suppose it appears that we would like that joke to be true, that if we were left to our own muddled, daily thoughts, we would opine, fantasize about, and play some pelvic pinochle as often as we could.
Gandhi and King didn’t get to be renowned pacifists by romping casually from one bed to another. As Mr. Miranda told us, Alexander Hamilton wrote his deliverance. He built his lasting fame.
Limit your daily fantasies to one boojee dream of taking Catherine Deneuve on The Last Metro downtown and spend the rest of the day playing the piano or solving crosswords or doing something productive like trying to write petty articles for Thought Catalog.
You’re confusing yourself.
You see this all over Tinder and other dating sights: the girl who claims “Not here for hookups” and then posts pictures baring as much boob as she can as if ready for her next boogie night, or the guy who pretends to be sophisticated, smart and classy then opens with “ur hot wanna bang” without the decency of a question mark.
You’re in a perpetual state of “to hoe or not to hoe.” It’s a trifling conundrum that leaves you caught between having a value and living a value. Do you want to end up like Aaron Burr?
Living with some sense of value inspires confidence and stability. If you need to find yourself, start somewhere else. I doubt you’ll discover your passion and purpose between bouts of clumsy thrusts and awkward gyrations.
Life is more than a series trivial trysts. Claims of searching for yourself can’t end like fitness resolutions that consist of another episode of Netflix and pint of ice cream. Just pick one and run with it.
If you’re a hoe, you’re a hoe. Ride that D-train to Pleasantville all you want. If you aren’t, you aren’t. I recommend the latter.
You’re lying to yourself.
One of my guiltiest pleasures is reading through lists of Whisper articles where people make odd confessions about doing the dirty. My personality type comes with a capital J, so it’s no surprise that I am inclined to engage in judging buffoonery.
A personal favorite is when someone confesses, “I’ve been cheating on my spouse for 10 years, and I don’t love him/her anymore.” Golly-gee, Taylor, I wonder how that happened? Might it be the consistent conjugal visits to someone else’s safety square?
I’m no Joyce Brothers, but I have a strong feeling that you’re in denial. Anything referencing porking tends to make liars of people. The prude claims he’s never thought of it. The man on an anonymous online chat room pretends he’s not looking for it. The woman tells her friends, “it’s not that big of a deal.” Lies.
The world has long churned out euphemisms to avoid open discussions of hip hockey. We know it’s sensitive. We know it’s awkward. We know it’s great. We know a lot of things about it.
Certainly it’s more than a little deal. Certainly it crosses our minds a great deal. Perhaps it’s a tremendous deal. The least you could do is be honest with yourself and clear the air around sex.