Let's Talk About Sex -pleasure, necessity, out of love-
When talking about sex, ideally one gets longer rapture about incredible, personal experience with sex, if that is the vanity inclined, conversing on the matter can lead onto parallels that correspond with love and the particulars of affection, the sincerity, fidelity, the adulterer his adulteress, bigamy, the perverse, the excessive indulgence, does a married couple make love? Do they simply have sex sometimes? Do they sometimes fuck each other? Just how unaffected is the latter? And on and so on, fondled parallels, life-affirming resemblances that relate to sharing love, passion, tenderness and union, and simply to get something.
Appropriately, a particular vanity is inclined when talking about sex from the perspective of personal experience, a scrupulous, narcissistic temperament of which spent youth and young man articulating the sexual proclivity, via the act; the touch her until she sighs, the spank her until it stings, the finger thrust until she's awash, and the artlessly fuck her until she serenades her own screams, that and the misunderstood cajoled by the interpersonal communication, and if love had a sound, then the expression would be the orchestra that played it, same sound at fourteen years old, breaking sacred virginity to the sound of Freddie Jackson's ‘Rock Me Tonight at 3 o' clock in the afternoon, and why?
80's child, and 90's teens- ‘ol skool', different times- a politically potent period of music, film and ‘struggle' expression, a period when the 60's and the 70's admiration for peace and love took an even more, unconcealed turn. Growing up, defined by colour-coded ethics, cultural nuisances and life's blueprint that prudence was unlikely to see, anytime soon, the expression of resonating all the synonyms to do with the writer revolved around estranged parents, poverty, revolutionary struggle and the Black excellence still robust enough to endure it all, in essence, to be what had long since been. And while Mummy still listened to Shirley Brown's "Woman To Woman", and Daddy rocked steady to Gregory Isaac's "Night Nurse", busy trying to replicate struggle, and achieve with the best of them, and run the fastest, or box the hardest, or jive with soul abandon and sing song, the 90's and it's sexualised intention took life's symbolic cue and orchestrated a new melody. Razzle and Escort was once top shelf, Ragga and R ‘n' B music genres sung sex and struggle, and the two musical genres helped shift the struggle to the bedroom, when music sang ‘murder', ‘slam' and work ‘pussy', when soul sang lick one up and down, from R Kelly's “12 Play”, to Jodeci's “Freak ‘n' You”.
Like the 60's and 70's the amendment played out, like the attuned hypnotised by sweet song young souls emulated the lyrics they sung to, misunderstanding the consequence they tried to reaffirm life's definition, and sex being a popular way to express meaning profoundly it became a matter of who done it the best, how best to do it, how many to do it with as many as possible, not forgetting the white taboo amidst the colour-coded ‘struggle', an attitude towards sex with as much abandon, aggression, and crudity that regressive arrogance could muster. Thus, from eighteen years old motivation began the pursuit of mastering intense, clitoral stimulation, and dazzling G-spot stimulation, hypnotised by the view of a throbbing penis thrusting with wild intent, such exploits loved being mesmerised by the ‘hot seat', a.k.a. the ‘love seat', the ‘man chair' on car bonnets, in the car park, at midnight in the local park, on the office desk, whilst house sitting, on a single bed until the limp alluded to a soreness in the never-region. Two sisters, three non- familial cousins, the 150 pound challenge, and the women at twenty-nine grown-up like Mummy was, and then some, more than counting can remember at the first attempt, this alluring, misogynistic black Maverick unapologetically black, trying to be as much as an anti-establishment symbol as a metaphor for racial revolution.
In retrospect, this succinct fascination with sex and its inconvenienced act, for reasons a troubled sensibility couldn't really grasp the reason why, crucially poetry started to mirror the soul, in essence, a reflection in place of the emotive response up until now. And it was the focus, the examination of attitude, feelings and consciousness, about the same time a fondness began to feel for Soul jazz, and it's soul, gospel and rhythm and blues influences, Herbie Hancock's "Cantaloupe Island" unshackling a different kind of abandon, Donny Hathaway's "A Song For You" motivating love-making that soothes soul and inflames loins, inspired inspiration that considered how it felt to make love to soulmate, in retrospect, this succinct fascination with sexuality there since six teenage boys lined-up outside a bedroom, as if it was a taxi rank, waiting on the one female driver to take each and every one on this run of the mill ride, why the human left was disgusted with that, this newfound beautiful consciousness wanting no part of that.
Sex- pleasure, necessity, or out of love- not knowing what served what purpose came far too close to frankly perverting a motivation to be forever driven by, same motivation that mirrored an aggressive, morbid, and intense sex drive unconsciously fucking because that was one of the few things one could do well, not knowing the act, then, mirrored life-affirming parallels to be concerned by, 900 words that doesn't even begin to tell the beautifully sordid tale.