At this very moment I am at a bachelor party. So “What the hell am I doing in front of a computer?” you ask! Avoiding! That is what.

Downstairs there is a bunch of guys, 1, at least with a rubber penis on his head, getting their fix of female solicitation. I am not against this sort of thing, I just have never been comfortable with the de-romanticism of sex.

Okay, call me a pansy! Go ahead, I may deserve it. It is just that I know that these sort of things feel so utterly false. You receive a woman’s attention, you feel the curves of her body, you smell the sweetness of her skin, and you have a desire. But…hold on, this girl could care less. This is a job for her, you are a job! She performs and you take nothing with you from the experience but a story to tell, that the guys from the last party she worked are telling, at that very moment, down at the corner bar.

Perhaps I am so afraid of it because I feel it will warp the idea, or vision I have of what I like sex, sensuality, and passion to be.

Is that a key factor as well, the fact that it lacks so much passion. Now, do not get me wrong, I have witnessed some pornographic situations that were utterly passionate. I have even been involved in a few; but something in this feels different. Not just the night going on downstairs mind you, but every time I find my self in this particular situation.

Thank god it is not often.

……..

So, I am back from a visit to the party downstairs. My ice cubes were getting dry and the last lingers of Makers Mark on my tongue were really making me thirsty.

When I came back upstairs I had the pleasure of meeting Sarah. She was one of the girls providing the entertainment who had made her way to the room I am sitting in. She began to get dressed, and while I was writing this sentence she came up, and started reading over my shoulder.

At first she was a little curious as to why I was sitting in front of a keyboard when there were naked, hard bodied, sexual, “chicks” (as she put it.); right downstairs giving all the men a show. I told her; “If you want to know why, just read as I type.”

After the first paragraph she was giving me the “Awhhh! That is so sweet!” By the time she got to the third; she was telling me I need to break out of my box, and get with the “flow!”

I had to ponder a moment of what the “flow” was. Nahh…I am definitely not “with” the “flow.”

She read on, as I am typing this mind you….

“You should not feel that way about this,” she said; “We are trying to make your fantasy!”

I look over at Sarah, and say “My fantasy with a woman is a unique experience between her and I.” I continued; “What you were performing downstairs is not my idea of a fantasy.”

She was a bit perplexed by this and asked; “So you do not like having a beautiful, naked, woman dancing for you, making you want more, placing her sex in your face?”

I replied; “Absolutely! I would love that! Not with 20 other guys throwing dollars on the floor next to me, shouting, and begging for it to be their turn though. Furthermore, when a woman is done doing her “dance” I do not want her to wipe her skin, or any part of her body that I licked, touched, or pinched, with a sanitary wipe. It kind of spoils the whole thing. Savvy?”

She stood there for a moment and really looked at me deeply. I felt as though I had insulted her in some way. I apologized, explaining that although I am very comfortable with sex and the experimentation that goes with it; the practices that take away from the romanticism of the experience, the moments that are sans-feeling because you cannot get personal; create a version of sexual practice that I do not find very pleasing at all. It turns into a mindless task, one where either one of you can be watching your favorite TV show during the whole thing.

When I am with a woman, I want to look her in the eyes and see the same desire I feel for her; whether it is a one-night stand, or the love of my life; rough and primal, or sensual and passionate. That gaze, that look, cannot be faked.

Sarah was not the first I had t explain this to. All night the other guys were asking me; “What’s wrong with you?” When I would show up downstairs they would all grab me saying; “You are next, Johnny!”

I would reply; “Don’t waste your money.”

I had to be told at least 20 times that I just had to “go” with it and have fun. You know what, I am having fun, put me in the midst of the show and now I am not. I am not the one who got this together so I am not going to complain about it. I am going to take my Whiskey and enjoy myself the only way I know how in this situation, stand back, observe, and write about it.