The Word Rabbit

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This article was written on 31 Aug 2016, and is filled under Uncategorised.

Professional Sex People are liars

I did a Thing a few days ago in which I took Professional Sex Person, Rowan Pelling to task. And I was going to do another Thing about a male sex columnist I know, but that was superseded in my mind by still yet another Thing about what the media tells us about sex and what our expectations around it should be. The media is a bad guide to live your life as it’s generally bullshit written for money, but let me start my talking about the sex columnist.

He was quite the thing, once, being wheeled out whenever A Man’s View Of Sex was needed, as though if you spoke to one man about it, you’d pretty much covered the bases. You opened a magazine or a newspaper and occasionally saw him talking to Sex People or ruminating on how many wanks he’d had or some girl he’d shagged, or whatever. It was entertaining and naughty if you were a twentysomething, but arse-clenchingly tedious if you were older and started to think that journalism-as-panto had a sell-by date.

This individual started going out with a friend of mine who told me rather too much about their sex life and, reader, what a very different picture emerged. She had to ‘get trussed up like a turkey’ whenever she wanted to shag him. He liked to whack off over her tits in front of a full-length mirror while she knelt in front of him. And once, when the sex didn’t go quite the way he wanted to he found that he was pushing rope and angrily threw the flaccid condom across the room in rather a temper.

Now, either he was a rogue sex columnist who sometimes couldn’t have sex if it deviated from exactly what he wanted or, and here’s the kicker, when the media talks about sex, it absolutely lies its arse off from morning until night to make money. A friend and I once worked out that the ideal magazine cover line was FREE SEX FUCK because sex was ubiquitous in magazines, so was free stuff so it made sense to cover them all and stick in an expletive for extra titillation.

When I was still a proper magazine hack and not an enormous. shambling failure, I wrote several pieces for women’s magazines about sex. They were all made up, from start to finish, with the brief that I had to write something rude and mildly arousing. In that vein, I wrote about a man who has an affair but comes back home feeling contrite and never does it again, and one about sex positions that was almost entirely made up or culled from talking to people and imagining what we could get their readers to do that was wholly ridiculous.

And that’s because the great truth of sex and the media is that EVERYONE LIES. We’re not all at it like knives in a slew of different positions and we’re not generally living the lives of monks. We’re pretty much in the middle, where all the boring people are, living out boring lives with some greater or lesser degree of struggle in them and where sex isn’t the primary motivation. Sorry to tell the truth, but we need to earn a living and keep a roof over our heads. What we do with cock or cunt is secondary. Or even tertiary.

Much as I hate Sarah Vine, hate her with as much passion as it’s possible to fit in the human body without levitating and much as I’d like to see her fired into space with Peter Sutcliffe and Rose West, she wrote that sex was a bit of a chore and couldn’t be arsed. This had the ring of truth about it because, as we all know, no human living could have sex with Michael Gove but also because she wasn’t saying that she had a libido the size of Bristol and couldn’t even be satiated by the Coldstream Guards working around the clock.

She was admitting what we all know. People lie about sex. You want to see pathos? Stand outside Agent Provocateur at Christmas where sheepish men line up to buy uncomfortable underwear in the wrong size for people who will wear it once, put out grudgingly, and then stick it at the back of the wardrobe with tumescent purple dildo they bought after reading a magazine feature about how all women ought to own one. They’re lying to themselves about what constitutes desire. So what hope does anyone stand when it comes to the media?

None, would be the answer. Which is why people line up to tell us that they’ve had sex on swings, in eighteen different positions and been back-scuttled in a jacuzzi. Well, here’s news. I’ve had sex in a jacuzzi and it was shite, with me leaving behind great strings of jizz, like seaweed. I’ve also done it on a train as well, and that was appalling, with me banging away while there was a steaming floater that was barely a foot away. Exotic sex is rubbish and rare. For the most part, when you see it, the writer is lying. Hugely.

The role of the media is to saddle us with other people’s expectations. Those people over there are having it all the time, the lucky bastards, and they’re doing it in loads of imaginative ways in wild foreign locations. They aren’t. They’re looking at you and thinking much the same thing. Admitting this won’t cause you to explode. It might leave you a bit isolated while other people keep their heads down, but they’ll inwardly be thinking you’re right.

Blokes haven’t seen a stocking in years, women don’t get the bloke with the sixpack who knows poetry. It’s all a myth. We do the best we can with the partners we can attract and, for the most part, that will have to do. What the media never, ever say is that sex, like life is about getting the best you can out of a comedically bad and dark situation. Put down the magazines, close the blogs by Professional Sex People, who are lying, and let’s get on with our lives.

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