My favorite position when it comes to sex is, and I realize that this might surprise many of you, the position known as missionary.
Hear me out.
I know that many of you, simply from the fact that you know me and follow my work, likely run with a fairly hip, bohemian crowd, and as such the majority of you like different things, very different things in some cases. And trust me, I understand and completely respect that. That’s beautiful. Your bodies and their myriad sexual desires are beautiful and deserve to be celebrated, because all bodies and all sexual desires, within certain bounds of sanity and consent, deserve to be celebrated, and as such I’d be the first to raise a glass to yours. The Heart wants what it wants, after all, and I would never deny The Heart that which it desired.
On an unrelated note, I’ve nicknamed my penis “The Heart” recently, I think it’s going really well so far. But that’s neither here nor there.
The point is, while I respect, indeed applaud, whatever you might indulge in in the privacy of your bedroom or neighborhood sex-dungeon, for me it will always be missionary style sex that at the end of the day drives me wild. I don’t know why, it’s more an instinctive desire than an intellectual one. And really, shouldn’t all sexual desire be too primal and visceral to properly put into words? Some aspect of missionary sex puts me over the edge, and perhaps it’s best simply to enjoy what I enjoy and not put too much thought into it. Because it’s sex, and sometimes over-thinking the matter only detracts from enjoyment of the act.
So no, I can’t quite verbalize precisely why I love missionary sex the way I do, I just know that I do.
I love every part of it.
Travelling around the world.
Experiencing different cultures.
Meeting interesting new people.
Having sex with them.
Trying to convert them to the type of sex that I enjoy.
And let me tell you, the type of sex that I enjoy does get weird. Converting people to it isn’t always easy to do, however much I might think they’ll love it if they just keep an open mind. Missionary sex can be long, hard, sweaty, punishing work, it can exhaust you physically, mentally AND emotionally, and leave you so drained that you can barely move. There are moments when you feel you can go no farther, can take no more, where the end is nowhere in sight, when the sun’s about to come up and you suddenly realize that you have to be at work in two hours. And in moments like that, yes, I’ve been tempted to give up missionary style for good, tempted to accept that I’m growing older, that I can no longer behave as though I were eighteen years old, and put missionary sex aside in favor of other, less taxing erotic pursuits.
But, when my gasping new convert is there, on his or her knees, in front of me, hands in the air, eyes wide in a mixture of shock and ecstasy, sweat glistening across fevered face, head thrown back as though to scream “Hallelujah”, and I know I’ve made a new believer, it makes the whole process worthwhile, both spiritually and, every bit as important, physically.
Is my attitude toward sex and sexuality old fashioned? Perhaps a tad. Does it carry with it certain parochial, Eurocentric colonialist baggage? It might. The Heart does, nonetheless, want what it wants, and by The Heart I again mean my penis, and I apologize for none of my desires in any of their bizarre, twisted glory. Nor should I. When you love something, after all, it’s natural that you’d want to share it with the world, and I in no way regret one moment of my time spent evangelizing.
I’ve loved every moment of it.
That’s why I love missionary sex, and why I make such a good Sex-Missionary, one who wears the title and all that comes with it both freely and proudly.
I likely always will.
Now, if you happen to have a moment to talk further about this issue, may my associate and I come in?