Happy bleeding heart bonanza. I don’t mean to sound so cynical, but I have had enough of this shit already. Fluffy bunnies, cats throwing away their usual ‘kiss my chocolate starfish’ fuck you and not in a nice way attitude, and deciding to go for kittenish coquettisms and batting their almond shaped eyes in the name of love, getting down and durty with the local alleycats, and assisting human reproduction to make sure they have secured their supply of human slaves for the foreseeable future.
Agape, filia, all those good types of love, those pure types of love get thrown under the bus in the name of, for one day at least, pretending it isn’t all about persuading little sally-sue or Chadly McDougal, the high school heart-breaking quarterback to go take daddy’s little red corvette for a spin and some noodling on the back seat of regretful decisions. No, Eros isn’t all about pure red hot lust, not today. Today it’s all about really really knowing that they are the ‘one’, the forever and there is a plethora of music to feed into the big ole lie that all hearts aren’t breaking, and we could all do without romantic love just as long as there was some motherfucker to put out now and again, make that beast with two backs, and get freaky with it.
The hung up right wing Christian conservatives might not like it, but they know what is up and getting down. Charlie Kirk, erstwhile football practitioner got horrified at the decidedly middle aged but hip half time show at the SuperBowl, where Snoop, Eminem, Mary J Blige, 50 cent et all were feeling their autumn-of-life oats, and making me feel like dreaming we were partying like it was 1999. It was the 6 cd trunk installed disc changer of the best party music gen x had to offer, but to Charlie, it was pure ‘sexual anarchy’ according to his tweet, and it should be taken off screens across the country immediately. Now, old Charlie would not know sexual anarchy if it slapped him across the ass with a big ole wet dick and twerked in his face. I am sure worse has happened to him in locker rooms throughout the NFL. It is probably why he is so hung up.
I am not hung up. I am bored. I know people find their ways of getting their kicks. I blink in a slightly out of date way and wonder if it is all worth the trouble. I tried to remember what it was like to feel that burning spark of lust. All I could summon was a wry smile and a vague longing for my twenties, a lesbian bar in a bad part of town, and some very kind dykes who let me partake in a little mutual pussy-adoration. Was it love? Nah. More stimulation storms, distractions and some nebulous longing to know what it was like to be adored.
Nowadays I couldn’t think of anything worse than someone actually sleeping in my bed. To be frank I never did like sharing a sleeping space. Someone else’s scent, someone else’s sweat, someone else’s snoring and body making mine hot-in-a-bad-way. I could never wait to say ‘hey thanks…see ya…’ and get them the fuck out of my space. I might have been free and wild, and lacking in the desire or ability to truly want to connect with another on emotional and romantic levels, but I was never someone who felt the desire to tell them how they should love. I never understand people like Charlie, who because they don’t feel the need to grab their crotch and do some interestingly provocative dance moves, want to ban the rest of the world for doing what feels good.
Fuck that shit. I’m with Patti, when she said in her blistering version of Gloria that: “Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine!” I have always got in trouble for being hurt, mainly because those who were doing the hurting and attacking had all the power, and it is easier to silence by ridicule and discreditation than it is to actually fight with words like an intelligent human being with some dignity and grace. Who gives a shit about someone else’s definition of sin? Since when was a bit of anarchy a bad thing? Anything that is worth getting worked up for, anything even remotely hot and heavy is wild and out of control, and outside of the rules.
I bet Charlie boy fucks through a glory hole, disinfects himself with holy water after and is sure to let his old lady know that she is the one, really really really…and still doesn’t sleep easy at night, half suspecting a jealous and unreasonable God is gonna strike him down for enjoying screwing his woman. Sucks to be him. Trouble is, these freaks on their sin-kick would make it suck for the rest of us too…just as long as it was sucking according to the rules they want to impose on what others do consensually, with other adult human beings and in private. His behavior just ain’t dignified. Charlie is letting his hysteria show, and it is ugly and unsexy as hell.
Real anarchy was never about sex. Anarchy is about destruction, fury, dismantling the system. Anarchists do not have the energy to fuck, they are too busy pulling down the wall after they put the ruling class up against it and make em piss their pants. Anarchy is not romantic. Anarchy is not sexual. Anarchy is a political position of resistance and a realization that the powers that be don’t mean the average person, not in the top one percent, any good at all. Anarchy is a bass player that can’t play, a lead singer who rolls around the stage a la Iggy Pop covered in peanut butter and his own blood. It is not Unkle Snoop crip walking and grabbing his crotch in the most California drenched performance since Tupac got us to realize that this state really knows how to party. Poor Charlie. Charlie is doomed. No one likes being told how to have fun.
I was always more of an anarchist than a harlot. I had plenty of sex, plenty of boyfriends, girlfriends, and partners that fell somewhere in between. I got paid and sometimes I didn’t. Sex was a transaction and I guess it still is. I was never about the romance. Romance is a lie they tell ya to make you feel better about the fact that love hurts like Nazareth sang, in fact it hurts so much that your head might end up separated from your body in the pines, the pines, like Leadbelly sang in a recounting of jealous fervor that ended up going very wrong for the wanna be Juliet in question. Love hurts when it is strong and a form of insanity, thinking that the holes that everyone has to fill in their black hole souls can be filled by another. Love hurts when it is weak and unreciprocated. Love hurts when it is there and then gone. Love sucks the life outta a soul. What is the point of romantic love? Once it cools, what is left? For me, just irritation and a need to protect my space and boundaries.
Happy Valentines Day. Love is what love is: a pain and an imperative. Perhaps instead of the echo chamber of personal connections we all need to make like Cobain and ‘ try to love one another right now.’ There is enough intolerance, ridicule, cancel culture silencings and hatred of those who are not exactly like ‘us’. Now that really would be anarchy, destroying the structures that make us hate that which is different and other to the group we identify with. Perhaps we all need a bit of that kind of love and ditch this saccharine cutsey pretence that any of us really give a shit about each other in any deep and meaningful way.