Good In Bed.SEX-OBSESSED MAGS ARE SCREWING UP OUR LIVES.
there’s an old wives’ tale that goes around every now & then about how men think about sex every seven seconds. now, i’m not sure how old wives research their theories (i imagine a group of elderly ladies prodding a lone male, going, “are you thinking about sex? are you thinking about sex? c’mon! you’re totally thinking about sex!”) but common sense would tend to indicate this is, pretty much, crap. how can guys get on with their day with constant thoughts of rooting going through their brains? how can they fly planes? make presentations? tie their shoe laces? so i’m not really sure the old wives institute for really scientific stuff had it right on that one. sorry, ladies.
but pick up practically any lady mag these days (the kind that tries to sell you bikinis, rather than the women in them), & you’d be forgiven for getting the idea that the female of the species pretty much thinks with her crotch all day long. cover lines promising insane amounts of ways to ****** (isn’t one enough?), pervy, voyeuristic tales about other people’s fantasies, other people’s hang-ups, other people’s uncomfortable, burning sensations. far too many sex in the city references (yes, you’re a charlotte - now please stop), & articles on spicing up your sex life that somehow leave you feeling that unless you’re rigged up in a gimp mask & vanilla-scented strap-on while contorting your way through two-thirds of the kama sutra, you’re doing it wrong.
whether it’s instructional diagrams of “new”, suspiciously porny-sounding sex positions (“this month - the reverse underage runaway cowgirl, with a twist!”), insultingly obvious advice (“surprise - men like boobs!”) or embarrassing “real life” sex stories (“i got pissed & screwed someone i shouldn’t have!”), ******* for dummies is being served up in monthly instalments on newsstands across the nation.
which is all very snigger-worthy, it’s true. but underneath the dumb, number-obsessed headlines & cringey illustrations, something else is going on. sex is being sold as a skill, like cricket or microsoft exel: something we need to bone up on (sorry), study, achieve, impress. a commodity that makes us more marketable while we show off our a-grade blow-job techniques, our portfolio of positions. we need to be coached by “sexperts”, doctors, **** stars, prostitutes. somehow we’ve reduced modern ******* to a stilted, anxiety-driven display of inserting tab a into slot b, then worrying whether or not our bum looks big. which is about as sexy as an ikea instruction card. & not nearly as fun or interactive.
but lady mags didn’t invent sex. neither did the baby boomers. not even charles darwin. we wouldn’t be here today if hundreds of generations worth of our ancestors weren’t good in the sack. once you get the basic birds & bees down, whatever way you want to do it is the right way - it’s not rocket science, unless you’re acting out some particularly interesting kinks. the only person you need to listen to is you, & the person you’re in bed with (or people, i won’t judge).
those old wives & their tales. they love to give advice. so do most magazines. but when it comes to what goes on in the bedroom, i say slam the door fast, shove your fingers in your ears & chant “nah nah nah” until they go away. i’m an adult. the person i’m with is an adult. we can work it out for ourselves. & if we can’t, there’s always wikipedia. to twist the words of rage against the machine, “**** you i won’t **** how you tell me”. good night & good luck.