Have you ever been in love? Real actual love, I mean; not just the thing you decide you’re in once you’ve been throwing it up a lady’s love passage for an arbitrary period of time (I think it’s three to six months, depending on how low your expectations of happiness are). Real, proper, stop-your-heart, can’t-live-without-her, eyeball-rolling love. I have been, and it’s marvellous.
Of all the things we do as a species, love is the most pointless and the most amazing. Evil Bad Aliens from The Films always laugh at our ‘weakness’ for loving, seeing it as something that makes us less. And yes, it sort of does. The love you feel for someone can skew your judgement; make you capable of awful decisions, and leave you open to the most excruciating pain. Like getting a tattoo on a open sore that’s been sunburnt, using a needle made of salt and iodine. Maybe.
But the utter best thing about love- and I mean the In Love love, not that genetic bullshit that nature puts inside you to stop you from strangling your baby when it won’t stop crying- the best thing about it, is the sexings. You could argue that this is also a genetic thing; that we are fooled into believing we love someone, just so that we can pass on our DNA. But that doesn’t explain how many babies are born into loveless relationships, as a result of the most boring sex imaginable. That wasn’t nature. That was Stella Artois: Nature’s Fizzy Assistant.
No, sex with someone whom you love- with someone off whom you fancy the absolute pantoloons, is like nothing imaginable. When you’re inherently primed to charge at that special someone, making thrusty thrusty boom boom movements with your below downstairs parts, the sex is incomparable to anything. Just putting it beside that one night stand you had with that girl whose name you can’t remember so you refer to her in your mind as ‘WKD Blue Nice Tits No. 43’, is like putting a Ferrari Testarossa next to a bin bag full of melted BMXs, and telling everyone that they’re ‘basically the same thing’. They’re not.
When you’re in actual love, there’s no part where you look at that person during the act and compare them to anyone you’ve ever been with before. There’s no wondering if you could do better, or thinking ‘Well that’s okay, but Tom used to do it a little harder’. When you love someone, everything they do in bed is right. Every noise they make is part of the tune. Every bone, muscle and jiggly bit is a sculpture by Donatello when it’s moving with you towards a wonderful, inevitable, mind-blowing finish.
But, but, but… that’s not like my sex life. I really love my partner, but they’re shit at sex stuff! I hear you shout. There’s no need to shout, stupid. I’m just words on a computer screen. But yeah, if that’s true, why don’t you fix it? If you’re in love (and you totally aren’t; I can tell just by looking at you), then it’s easy to show someone or tell them what makes your boat rock. Talking to the person you love should be easy. If it isn’t, then maybe you’re not in love. Or maybe you should try harder. Or maybe you should find someone else. It’s okay to find someone else, you know. It’s even legal in some countries now.
Whatever equipment God gave you, or whatever dress size you happen to be, it’s possible to find someone out there who creams themselves inside out and backwards just from smelling your neck while you hug them. It’s possible, and rare. All the How To Pick Up Chicks books in the world won’t make someone have that chemistry with you; you have to find her yourself, unfortunately. And girls, no matter how many times he’s watched that 400 girl lesbian orgy porn video that you keep finding in his internet history, if you’re the one for him, he only needs one of you to make him fire the torpedoes every time. But you have to be the right one for him, and he for you. Otherwise you’re both settling. And settlers have Bad Sex. And people having Bad Sex stop having sex at all. And people who stop having sex, have affairs. And people who have affairs, get the clap. And you don’t want the clap now, do you? No. Not again. Because, your vagina. Ouch.
What’s my point? I probably don’t have one. Other than maybe that you don’t have to put up with terrible sex ‘because you love’ someone. The chances are, you don’t really love them at all. It’s a habit, it’s a safety net, it’s a way of not being alone. Listen, there are worse things than being alone, and being miserable is one of them. Life is too short. Go find your lobster, and hold onto them. Not with flowers or with promises. With filthy, nasty, delicious, disgusting, scratchy, pully, bitey, thrusty, pull-aparty, squeeze-togethery, gorgeous-smelling, dirty-looking, doesn’t-matter-how-long-for, doesn’t-matter-what-size, intuitive, gratuitous, unbridled fucking. Every night you can, and twice when the kids are at their Nan’s.
That’s just my opinion, obviously. Yours could be equally (DENIAL DENIAL DENIAL DENIAL) right.