Fifty Shades Of Gay? – Sasha Selavie weights in society’s problematic perceptions of sex.
Me, I like my sex twisted, forbidden and filthy, all the qualities missing in anodyne, gym-buddy bonking, where the only taboos are emotion and passion!
When did sex become such a fucking chore? Daily, we’re bombarded with images of butts, cunts and dicks, more relentlessly than inmates being fire-hosed in a Victorian mental asylum! Don’t you just get pig-sick of heavy-handed, subliminal imagery sexualising everything from candy bars to toothpaste, with the ever-present implication of a dripping cock?
Jesus, even Sigmund Freud – who coined the term ‘polymorphous perversity’ for unorthodox, sexual desires – never anticipated our present, global pornotopia, where everything possible is sexualised! You want primetime TV with the puke-making prospect of Gordon Ramsey gushingly creating haute cuisine enemas, and sicker yet, demonstrating them live? Neither do I, but it’ll happen, as desperate media worldwide stick greedy, groping fingers up even the poxiest perversions to milk them dry!
What’s to be done? When did all the fun leach out of sex? Me, I’d say with the rise of social media, where any inept fuck can be immediately crucified by Instagram trolls! Who needs insane peer pressure that makes any casual, meaningless shag an impossible audition judged against porn star standards, a heart attack waiting to happen?
More and more, there’s a bizarre, performative aspect to sex that manically shames those who can’t – or won’t – measure up. It’s a tendency obliquely expressed in the prissy, puritanical idiocy of ‘vaginal steaming’ – Gwyneth Paltrow’s latest airhead enthusiasm – and compounded by Hollywood approval of anal bleaching. Duh, get real, people – the butthole’s meant to be a tempting, dark-lipped erogenous zone, just gagging to be kissed and have spunk sucked from! Gee, if it’s good enough for monkeys and their sexually inflamed, bright red bubble-butts, isn’t a pouting, chocolate starfish an object of adoration for rimming queens worldwide?
Exactly. Who needs ferociously toned, fuckbuddy fascists bodyshaming others? It’s a sociopathic blindness to two raw, real essentials – sexual charisma and mystique – that no gym regime possible can fabricate! So, what’s my particular idea of pure Hell on earth? Easy – one ultra-bizarre, dominatrix joint in Manhattan, which combines gym facilities with total degradation and exhaustive beating techniques! What is this crap? Are you vetted for Olympic-level perversion before some contemptuous douchebag dominatrix even lowers herself to accept your laughable two grand for an hour of abuse?
Well, if that’s the pathway to beautifully ripped high-end orgasms, shove it. Me, I like my sex twisted, forbidden and filthy, all the qualities missing in anodyne, gym-buddy bonking, where the only taboos are emotion and passion! Christ, sex today – especially the revered sex tapes of deadhead Paris Hilton and her vapid ilk – is like sleep-wanking for Olympic gold! Why bother buying vegetables when you’re sharing a bed with the human equivalent, a disconnected zombie permanently blissed-out on the internet Valium of Facebook and Twitter?
Screw that. Me, I look back with eager, frantic nostalgia on the exploits of 1960s, female groupies, who’d shag anything living with a guitar! Sure, dismiss them as knackered old spunk-buckets who’d chisel through dubious hygiene and crusted shit with panting tongues and teeth, but at least they had more passion than Paltrow!
Tragically – inside our worldwide wonder-web – we’ve become insanely indifferent to naked flesh in front of us, and merely capable of jacking off to third-party fantasies. Which – in a fabulous god-send for the arts – means porn, movies, theatre and novels. You want pointers? Avoid Fifty Shades of Mediocrity and instead, mainline the Marquis de Sade, the sexual god of amoral excess and encyclopaedic guide to the aromatic joys of wallowing in shit!
And cinematically, there are more deviant pleasures out there than a chemsex K-hole. My favourites? Anything by Bruce LaBruce, the Fellini of gay porn, whose Hustler White thrillingly combines cling-film and amputee sex. And, more classically, there’s Andy Warhol’s Blow, the Mona Lisa of sucking cock! So who needs air-brushed, anaesthetised sex? Please, just keep it as filthy and shocking as possible! Fifty shades of gay?
