Pieces of Meat

We’re weird, as a culture. 

Strange, I might offer as a better term. 

Many of us pretend to be prudish, to clutch the pearls when we hear something ‘blue’, but the truth is that most of us like naughtiness. 

We like the dirty stuff. 

Why did porn really sink its roots into American culture when it went online?
Because we could consume it in private, GENERALLY without anyone knowing. 

That’s the thing, we love to be freaky…as long as no one is going to know. 

And hey, fly that flag, man. 

Don that leather. 

Wear that lace. 

Find your happiness. 

The problem becomes though when we force our feigned prudishness onto others and society as a whole. Not that we need the dirty business out on the street, but that we act as if OH, LORD, YOU’RE SO IMMORAL because people have sex, or kiss, or are not outwardly prudish themselves. 

We grab our throats and wave air into our faces and pretend we’re getting faint. 

We like to feel attractive. 

We like to feel sexy. 

It’s OK. 

I knew a girl that couldn’t dress in any sort of revealing manner because of her religion but she still got herself stuff from Victoria’s Secret. Now, no one saw it, but she did, and that was what mattered. She felt good about herself. 

Boss. 

It was for her. 

We get so caught up in the idea that people need to be polite and proper FOR US that we forget that people also need to do what’s right FOR THEM. 

Oh, gosh though, we sure do like to hear OTHER PEOPLE’S business. We LOVE to gossip about OTHER PEOPLE’S bedroom proclivities.

We love to corner celebs and ask them, oooooo, how was so and so in bed?

Why do we care?
Why do we feel we’re entitled to that?

And on this end, we don’t tend to ask men that sort of thing because it’d seem lewd. 

Oh, but we love to hear starlets and other famous women tell us who they slept with and how it was. 

But if something ‘too sexy’ makes it to the airwaves the phone lines are lit up with middle American Marthas crying about the children. The most recent Super Bowl had people calling up the network and stations complaining about too much gyrating and crotch touching during the halftime show. 

Lord. 

It gets tiresome, this game we play, where we move the line at our convenience. If our favorite politician is caught in some sort of sex scandal we laugh it off and say, hey, it’s just a dude being a dude. If leaders of our religion get caught acting indecently/illegally then we say, well, it’s not for me to judge. But if our neighbor, or a stranger does something we think is sinful we make darn sure that they and the world at large knows about it and that they are shamed for it. 

Sex is fine. 

It’s good. 

It’s great. 

What it is, truly, is up to you. 

It’s awful that we were at a point where we were teaching kids about sex, sexuality, gender, and all of it. We were embracing kink and alternative lifestyles because WE live those lifestyles and have those kinks. Cripes, light B and D got into the pop culture but now we’re rocketing back to the days of fake puritanism and it’s harming our kids we pretend to worry over. It teaches them shame and that they cannot be open about who they are and what they want. It teaches girls that they cannot ask for what they need and desire because it’s dirty. Oh, we’ll go watch our lesbian pornos and giggle in the dark but if our kids come out to us we get outraged and embarassed. We want to closet sexuality, which is a huge part of what makes us who we are and makes humans the interesting beasts we are.

If it gives us joy, why run from it?

It doesn’t mean we need to advertise what we do in the dark or need to inquire what everyone else does, but it means that we accept that, like pooping, we all do it to some degree or another. Whatever it means to us.

And that’s swell.

If you’re safe, and honest, and consensual then, man, do what you do. It isn’t my business, and it isn’t anyone else’s, unless, you have like, a paysite or an OnlyFans and then, well, get that cheddar baby.
Get it. 

…c…

I write very appropriate and chaste books. Honest. Go see for yourself.