5 of 30 in a series on sexuality.
Last night I the best sexual experience of my life.
My clothes were on. My penis was flaccid and I did not put it inside of anything or anyone. There was no orgasm, at least in a conventional or physical sense. And not once during the actual experience did I identify any sexual sensations whatsoever.
I was at karaoke at the Avenue on Michigan Ave in Lansing. Surrounded and permeated by beautiful energies of friendship, creativity, diversity, performance, and love.
If you paid attention, you could see synergy happening everywhere. Cascading, tiered, expanding, perpetual waves of kind thoughts, deeds, and feelings whooshed about the environs, touching everything in a fever-pitched chain reaction. Laughter and smiles were the ubiquitous outcome.
One-by-one, awe-inspiring vocal talents took to the stage. It seemed clear that each singer felt the music rushing through their veins. The music was then amplified within their hearts and redistributed through the crowd’s eager arteries.
Never until recently, had I thought of myself as a dancer. Last night I felt like I’ve been a dancer since forever ago.
You see, the music made love to me.
It fucked me so right.
It fucked the whole house, and the house said, “This is good.”
The music rubbed its naughty bits all over me from head-to-toe.
First it dominated me, and then it submitted to my power as I penetrated its every orifice.
When it was my turn on the stage, I had mistakenly mentally prepared for the wrong song.
The song I selected was March of the Pigs by Nine Inch Nails. The mix-up happened because my mind associated the word ‘pig’ with another NIN song called Piggy.
If you know about these songs, you know that Piggy is much more laid back than March of the Pigs.
So when the music started, I was completely caught off guard by the frantic percussion and chaotic soundscapes.
If I missed a beat, I doubt anyone noticed much, because I just let my body do whatever the music told it to.
I belted out the vocals to a screaming crowd, touching on my sweetest rock star fantasies. There was no room for self consciousness, or memories of the past, or dreams of the future. It was pure energy. Pure now.
So, ask me.
Inquire with me, about whether I’d rather make love to a supermodel, or to experience what I did last night.
I mean technically, I could go for both the karaoke and the sex, either in direct sequence or perhaps straight up simultaneously.
But let’s not be too greedy here.
I’ve had amazing sexual intercourse throughout my adult life.
But last night was the best sexual experience I’ve ever had so far.
Now, if anyone is offended by my sexualization of karaoke, I can understand where you’re coming from.
Not everyone there looks back on the night through a sexual filter.
I’m probably the only one…
And if anyone who was there is reading this, some might think I am disgusting for making it about sex.
But hey. This book I’m writing and focusing my attention on for thirty days, is about sexuality.
This inspires me to think in sexual metaphors more often than I would otherwise.
And for me, that’s fun.
Because sex is fun.
And sex is not disgusting. Not inherently. It can be experienced in disgusting ways, like when people are exploited and dominated against their will.
But sex in and of itself is beautiful, healing, cathartic, pure, and indivisibly essential.
Sex is life-producing and life-affirming. Though it has had some terrible publicity over the years, suffice to say that sex has been misunderstood and abused.
Sex has been raped.
Let’s evolve beyond that, I say. Let us master our distinctions and free ourselves of our stigmas.
That’s what I want, anyway.
How do you want it?
Also published on Medium.