Sex in the Country

SEX is not trendy. To believe otherwise is to accept the biggest bourgeois lie ever told. Lots of very uncool people fuck every day. Your parents fucked and they most likely aren’t cool. Mitt and Ann Romney fucked a lot to create their large, very uncool, so-not-on-fleek, Mormon family. Forget the idea that good sex requires haute couture musculature and disaffected cigarette smoking afterwards while mid-afternoon rain drizzles outside and a Neko Case Spotify playlist spurtles within your metropolitan studio apartment.

Throughout most of history, human sexuality was far too dire and/or circumscribed for such luxuries as late-20’s ennui. Peasants fucked to warm their plough-hardened bodies, commingling pubic lice and spreading the Plague as they did so. Hundreds of years before the advent of Tumblr, women and eunuchs were bought and sold into cruel lifetimes of sexual slavery without even a shrug. In reality, sex is a brutal, animalistic series of gestures whose only discernable telos is orgasm. It is the one activity 21st century people engage in that cavemen would still recognize.

What a pity if the end goal of sexual liberation—very much an ongoing, mayhap eternal, process—comprises bored swipings through Tinder, meet-cutes during gentrified brunches, and hi-res images of public bodies denatured in Photoshop. Our libidos have been filtered of their sanguis through the cloudy prisms of technocapitalism and ego worship. We have not freed ourselves for sex, but freed ourselves from it. Like everything else in our modern lives, it has been atomized into a la carte components that fit onto a Pinterest board.

donut collage

The purpose of this column is to suggest projects and concepts to recontextualize fucking in an attempt to slough off some of its cultural baggage. Think of it as those ludicrous sex tips in Cosmo, but when I suggest eating a donut off of a dick, I really mean it. Everything I will suggest will be plausible, if outlandish. These exercises can be implemented for any number or gender configuration of partners, unless otherwise noted. At the core of pretty much anything I write is this: sex is just an abutment of organs. It is healthiest when done only with those you trust, but it need not be restricted to only those you love. Fuck your friends as well as your lovers. Fuck acquaintances, if you deem them worthy.

Other than that, don’t stress it. Have a laugh. That’s what sex is. An eons-long joke that doesn’t stop being funny. As abhorrent as our ancestors’ sexual politics were, they got a few things right. Pretty much every coital fluid (and solid!) has been worshipped and ritually ingested by some ancient cult or another. Before it was infected by the dual pathogens of state and religion, sexual identity was situational more often than not. Some part of reclaiming human sexuality does include the inevitable Lacanian return to mother/nature’s bosom, so ideas such as these inform my recommendations. It is in fact in the spirit of perverted old Pagans (or, at the very least, the album cover of Led Zeppelin IV) that I bring to you my first concept:

Havin’ a Time in the Country:

1. Print off some pictures of black metal album covers, stills from the 80’s horror movies, Goya paintings, early Robert Mapplethorpe photography, etc. You want images that will confuse or upset a conservative values voter household—it is crucial that they are still phallogocentric enough to exude primordial feelings of power to this patriarchal and predominantly white demographic. Gather up some firewood, along with at least one small dried animal skull. Put these all these things in your trunk. Don’t disclose this cargo to your partner(s).

2. Get your sexual partner(s) in the car and tell them you’re taking a ride. Don’t tell them where. Put on a pair of black leather driving gloves and the least humorous sunglasses you can find.

3. Drive a few hours out of town. Don’t talk. Don’t listen to the radio. You will know you are in a good spot when the gas stations sell local crime rags at the counter and nubby condoms in the bathroom. Purchase some of each.

4. Tell your partner to pick names for everyone to use for the duration of this exercise from the crime rag mug shots. Everyone should only respond to these names. By now, they will start asking questions. Provide only responses like, “sweets for the sweet, [Criminal Name X].”

5. Get off the main road; find an abandoned barn. Partial visibility from the barn helps, but is not essential. Arrange some rocks and/or debris in a circle and start a fire. Use the crime rags as tinder if necessary. Scatter the pictures of Hellbound: Hellraiser II and Saturn Devouring His Son on the ground, but away from the fire. You’re trying to get your fuck on, not die.

6. Upend your partner(s) suddenly onto the pile of graven images. Keep your gloves on. Keep your sunglasses on. Discard all other clothing. Throw it to the other end of the barn.

7. Ravish them. Use the gas station rubbers as you do so, even if this is an all-female event. Your motions should be decisive and forceful, like you are trying to fuck the Earth itself and the human form beneath you must be mashed into oblivion to reach it. Employ a light choke from your gloved hands to really spice things up. Don’t fling the condoms around when they fill up. Let the spent condoms mix about with the (hopefully plentiful) sweat and black metal albums.

8. Piss on the fire to put it out. If nobody feels the need to urinate, keep fucking until someone does. Take half-burnt sticks and mix it around in the piss and ash mixture. Draw shapes on each other’s naked bodies. More arcane the symbolism, the sexier. Go with characters from the Wingdings font if nothing else comes to mind. Wingdings is mystical as shit. Reminder: your sunglasses and gloves should still be on.

9. Fuck standing up, against the side of the barn. Be mindful of splinters, but don’t let it preoccupy you. Splinters are a part of life. Besides, tweezing splinters out of someone’s ass is its own delight. As you climax this time, hold the small animal skull above your heads. Crush it. Let the bone chips sprinkle over both of you. You’ll be thankful you wore the gloves.

10. Get dressed. Don’t clean anything up. Let the sweaty print-outs, creamed-in condoms, and pissy cinders serve as evidence of your deed. Don’t wipe the Wingdings off your face and body; feel them seep into your pores as long as you can stand it. Do what you want with the sunglasses and the gloves now.

11. Ask your partner what your name is one last time. Regardless of what they say, tell them they are wrong. Stop at a drivethru on the way home and buy them a large cheeseburger combo. They deserve that much.

Mark André is a prose writer, information specialist, and minister counseling sinners in the sexual abyss surrounding Our Nation's Capital. Questions or feedback for Mark may be sent care of other [at] queenmobs [dot] com

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