I Don't Have Sex To Get Gold Medals

(NOTE: Based on time elapsed since the posting of this entry, the BS-o-meter calculates this is 6.03% likely to be something that Ferrett now regrets.)

Some people sleep on soft mattresses. I sleep on a hard mattress, and that makes me better.  In fact, I sleep fitfully on an Olympic-grade mattress, a cold and merciless sheet of titanium, a pillowless place where only most-trained slumbernauts can find any rest at all.
And my only meal is the ortolan, a crunchy bird literally drowned in alcohol, which I devour whole a bite at a time, my face draped in a towel so you can not see my bloodied gums sharded with tiny, needlelike bird bones.  This is Olympic-style eating.  It is the best –
– oh, drop the bullshit, can we?
This essay’s inspired by another essay on FetLife titled Double black diamond sex, which ostensibly has the positive (and correct!) message that you have to find the sexual partner who loves doing what you do, but is sadly wrapped up in the bullshit idea that there’s a style of sex that is superior simply because it is difficult.  According to that essay, there’s “beginner” sex and “intermediate” sex and then the dreaded double black-diamond super-ski magnate sex, which not anyone can aspire to.
(Guess what kind of sex the author of this essay has?  G’wan.  Guess.  It’ll be totes surprising.)
And let me say here that difficulty is not goodness.  Unless the only music you enjoy is the tweedliest of prog-rock where the musicians play in time-signatures that don’t exist within human thought.  Unless the only movie you like is Primer, a time-travel movie so complex that even Wikipedia seems vaguely confused about what actually happened.
The fact is that this Saturday, I went to the Velvet Tango Room, literally one of the top five bars in the entire world, a place where I had $18 cocktails using only the freshest ingredients, with ice cubes that tumbled out of a $10,000 ice machine designed to create perfectly-cubical cubes at zero degrees so they wouldn’t melt your drink, everything squeezed and shaken by hand.
Then I went to Old Fashion Hot Dogs, a dive so divey that I’m not even sure they’re aware enough of the Internet to *have* a website, and paid $3.25 for a bacon-and-egg sandwich.
Both were delicious, in their own ways.  Except according to the Double Black-Diamond guy, “a good skier won’t bother with the bunny hill,” and I would never of course be caught dead eating simple food.
Fuck that.
There’s this ridiculous hierarchy assholes keep trying to build, where it’s not enough to have found the sex/food/movie they like to experience, but they actively have to start ranking things so what they like is on the goddamned top.
Sex is about enjoyment.  And yes, I have my “double black-diamond days” where I feel like breaking out all the skill and equipment and the whipped cream and the gimp suit and the team of Clydesdales, and that can be fucking awesome.
I can also have a quick missionary lay.  And that can be just as good.
And it’s not for some people.  I get that.  Some people need all the acoutrement and the seven-hour fuckfest to get off, and I completely am behind that.  They should find like-minded people to swing from the chandeliers with.
But do you have to malign the people who like the quick missionary stuff to do it?
In a world filled with kink, the last thing we fucking need is to take our own preferences and turn them into some sort of objective superiority in order to make people feel like, “Gee, I can’t have the *good* kind of sex.”  The good kind of sex is the one that makes all people satisfied.  That is not the same as complexity, because I know of some skiers who *can* do the double black-diamond but prefer the gentler slopes because they don’t have to worry as much.
We fuck.  We love.  We enjoy.  Let’s not make this complicated.
Or maybe, according to this fucked-up scale some people are espousing, the more complicated we can make it the better it’ll be.  But I think if we apply that logic to relationships, we’ll see how quickly that shit falls apart.

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