Sex - Be not afraid!

The most misunderstood personal act in the entire human repertoire of activities is sex. It is personal, powerful, and the most exciting moment of temporary madness that we experience. It is unforgivable how many of us find it necessary to peer into the bedroom of our neighbours and judge, usually adversely, the activities we imagine to be going on there; unforgivable, but understandable. Generally while engaged in sexual activity, we look from our mind to the beloved, and see beauty and love. If however we are forced to contemplate the act of sex between others, we observe from a vantage point that is impersonal, devoid of the colour of affection, and consequently and necessarily lack empathy with what is being expressed.

Coldly, one might see or imagine nothing, but the awkward manoeuvring of bodies that may not suit your ideas of physical perfection. Are they too old, too fat, too ugly for you? Who cares? They are presumably not doing it for you. Without a sensitive, enlightened and poetic director to control proceedings, one could be forgiven for believing that sex is unlikely to be realised as a spectator sport that is worthy of acclaim. With so much against voyeurism, it is no wonder that it is easy for the narrow minded obsessive to find sex distasteful if performed by anyone other then them/ourselves.

However it is good. I like sex, and I do not intend to stay on the negativeness that so often surrounds it. I would rather speak of the beauty of sex and love. Although the two do not necessarily have to go together, I would like to muse for a while on the connection of the two, dare I say the intertwining of love and sex. However I can not do it yet. This is difficult to express correctly, and I want to say something when I feel capable.  I still believe the censorship of others would interpret any comments from their own subjective limits. Once again, I believe it (imagination) is part of the human condition that is difficult to approach objectively. There are no universals in beauty, or taste, no one brings the same baggage of experience as the next person and understanding with clarity our own thoughts is neither easy nor is it always possible.

A moment from my novel 'Dance With The Sun'

On the evening of the fourteenth day he lay shivering and naked in his sealed room with only the unstable light of a single candle revealing the unwanted existence of the world about him. Foetal-like he sought security, wrapped in his moist bedclothes. He lay on his back. He lay on his stomach. He ground his groin into a pillow. He stretched his thigh along a mattress not quite covered by a torn sheet. Tears flowed through his lashes and droplets of fluid seeped pearl-like from the tip of his untouched, exploding and alien erection. The blood drained from the enemy and in the mirror of a half open cupboard door, he set his eyes upon that part of him that had no where to go; his friendless friend. The cyclops stared back uncaring. The eye would not shift its gaze as the shrivelled armour shrunk and expanded over and over again oblivious to the face contemplating its unfolding ugliness. Folds shrivelled and moved as it roamed through the forbidden forest, foraging for satisfaction like a mucous covered snail in search of a shell within which to hide. Thoughts of long past satisfaction strengthened its resolve to seek, but realisation of futility stilled the glistening point of its observation. Hatred for the monster sullied his brain. Yearning for renewed friendship pained his muscles. The arrogance of the challenge before him frightened the boy, as beyond his powers the foreign assault stood to confront the pathetic state of his securities. In an attempt to stare it into submission he summoned up visions of wasted potential to throw in its face, but still it faced him with determined vengeance. Against his will, the untouchable spectacle stood it's ground in challenge to the weakness exposed. Primordial reserves were brought into play as his pores opened in a final attempt to pour control over the situation and sweat oozed into the field of battle. Monster faced monster; demons all, until with a primal cry he clasped it with his hands and throttled the enemy until from the crimson eye burst the white shreds of submission. Falling asleep with the lifeblood of the monster setting like flaked serpent’s skin across his stomach, the boy dreamed of hell. From the inferno he sought an escape for himself and his friend the monster.

A performance piece by The Humping Pact
recorded and live for an audience.

There are other clips of  German Group The Humping Pact here on this blog.