Jesus. I thought I had a fckkd up relache with sex.
But then I read about this animal today called the Antechinus – who forks for fourteen hours at a time, OD’s on his own testosterone, and then finally dies ‘cause his immune system goes out. (On the upside, he doesn’t have to stick around to raise the kids seeing as they’re burying his bones while he’s still got a boner and before the chick even delivers any more of these furry fiends).
(These dudes are screwed if they ever learn how to fap.)
But why do animals do this post coital craziness? Rabbits pull out their hair between sexing and excreting new species members. Mayflies form giant orgy clouds of Caligula-esque proportions and then die after egg-laying. In the wild, it seems like the only point in life is to just seek sex until you can’t survive anymore. And go nuts in between busting them. Are we just fooling ourselves, human-kind? With our business suits and schedules and pleasantries and not slapping eachother’s asses or dragging eachother back to our caves? Are we the crazy ones?
Not these natural creatures committing screw-icide?
(I hate myself for not thinking of this scene first before the author of the other article I found it in did.)
I mean, if I’m being honest, after uggo-bumping I generally kinda want to destroy things, too. Even if it was good. A decent amount of the contents of my kitchen that’ve been dismantled have that to thank. And while I typically calm down enough to settle for a nice long run, I have to wonder: is this hormonal turmoil a throwback emotion to my cro-magnon ancestors who probably went on a homicidal cave crawl with their clubs after knockin’ boots? Are we just meant to have sex and let it slowly drive us into psychosis during the intimacy intermissions? If so, does that mean that all of the stuff we’ve built around us is just beleaguering bullshit that makes the getting and keeping of mates that much tougher? Because we’re too tired and distracted and insecure in between our eight to twelve hour work days (which, unlike the Antechinus, aren’t spent effing. Unless you’re a prozzy)? And that makes us feel even crazier because to admit it makes us look like the uncivil animals that we are if we concede that – at our core – we’re sex motivated creatures?
Then, it hit me.
Sex-madness isn’t about sex. It’s about death.
I think we don’t give animals enough credit when it comes to mortality awareness. I think they’re aware – espesh after they’ve fulfilled their generativity role. That’s why they go batshit. Contrarily, we culturally complicate sex as a means to delude ourselves into thinking that, if we try our hardest, maybe we won’t ever die. Courting is a way to lengthen dating. Foreplay is a way to lengthen the sexual act. And the non-sequitur we act out is that mayhaps monogamy is a way to lengthen life itself. Into forever. While that’s obvi not true, it is a stellar way to convince ourselves of it. That (among other things) we might not die alone – or maybe at all. And, in a world of painfully long lifetimes, to avoid the discomfort that accompanies enduring. But, really, that exclusivity practice is just like walking into a haunted house and clutching your friend’s arm – or letting the fat guy into your zombie apocalypse group (who’ll get eaten first and buy you extra time). Sure, half of you hopes that they stay alive too so you can keep validating each other for a few more decades. But that other half of you also secretly hopes that the other person collapses and dies like some Don Juanian marsupial if they bust enough nuts in your company. That way you can have been their last. And tell yourself you were that good. Godlike even. So you’re never gonna die. Right?
Right?!
Time to go live with the hippies and do what I was meant to do: sex carelessly until expiration.
(Yes, there should officially be a montage of instances I’ve issued this empty threat.)