It’s about three O’clock on a
Sunday morning when Harry Endsworth, who is laying on a strange bed being sucked off by a
blonde named Charity, makes the most profound of
discoveries: sex is the most enjoyable activity mankind has ever or would ever
invent.
As Charity strokes him with her fantastic tongue, Harry
considers of course that some people might argue that it was God, not man, who invented sex—but let’s face it: even if God can be given credit for the concept
of intercourse, it was most certainly man who perfected the art with such
innovations as the Kama Sutra and kinky foreplay.
Anyway, he tells himself,
that isn’t really the point.
Charity looks up at him briefly with a
soft smile, and Harry reaches down and tousles her unruly blond locks.
She bends once again to his thick shaft and her long, tan fingers
delicately explore the veins that run from the base to the swollen tip. He met
this girl a few hours ago, he doesn’t really remember where, but it seems
completely insignificant to him anyway. She’s hot, decently good at what she’s
doing, and sex is sex.
When Harry takes the time to think about the
big picture of his life he recalls younger days where his father used to share
this vital piece of advice: “You need to find something you love, Harry, and you
need to stick with it. Don’t settle for ‘good enough’ when it comes to your
life. Find what you love to do, Harry, and do it.” Harry’s father, Mr. Irvine
Endsworth, had not taken his own advice. Irvine was a businessman somewhere at
the bottom of the music industry. He deluded himself into believing that he was
following his bliss because Rock & Roll had been his true love somewhere in
his youth, but being the data management guy for a multitude of Britney
look-alikes, all wanting to be the first to give bubble-gum pop a “punk edge,”
is hardly living the dream.
What Irvine never had the good fortune of realizing is that his love of Rock & Roll was really just a hand-me-down from his, and every other human
being’s, love of sex. Like most people in his society, Irvine felt the need to
translate that love of sex, which is the purest and most basic of all loves,
into “something he could make a suitable career out of one day.” All those long
nights on Lover’s Lane, smothering himself into an endless array of luscious
high school sweethearts to the sound of Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd convinced
him that the undeniable rush of adrenaline he got every time he heard classic
70s rock playing on the radio was because of the music rather than the memory of
70s-Rock Sex. It’s a lie a lot of people tell themselves.
Harry,
however, was able to take his father’s advice and apply it to finding the true
key to happiness in life. His father was right: all one needs to do is find
that thing in life that he loves most and do it. Now, with Charity’s smooth
tongue tracing his hardness and lapping at the taste of him, Harry is certain
that he has found that one thing in life that he could dedicate himself to every
single day. Sex.
Not only that, but Harry is sure of another
discovery as well: he couldn’t possibly be the only human being who thrives on
the thought of having hot, passionate sex every morning, afternoon and night.
If only society were structured differently, nobody would refuse the
opportunity to spend their lives having sex all the time! But no, from day one
each and every one of us is told that we have to go out there into the world and
play productive, “respectable” roles in our communities. And for what? Honestly, Harry reflects, at least 99.9% of people’s incentive to get
well-paying jobs and big fancy houses or cars or yachts or whatever…when it
comes right down to it, it’s really all about getting ass and how to maximize
one's ass-getting.
“Charity,” Harry whispers to the perky young blond as she bobs her head
slowly up and down, pulling his member in and out of her wet mouth. “Charity,
what do you want to be when you grow up?”
She glances up at him in a
way that initially says, “Are you kidding me?” But her gaze softens and she
crawls up over him and nuzzles her head into his chest. “I’m going to school to
be in marketing and sales.” What an abysmal tragedy.
Slowly and
sensually, Charity starts delivering smooth kisses to Harry’s neck and he wraps
his arms around her delectable body. He starts to ask her a question about what
sort of company she’d like to work in, but she presses a finger against his lips
and whispers, “shhhhh,” before kissing him hard on the mouth. Look at her,
Harry thinks to himself, she was able to stay on the subject of marketing and
sales for a good—what was it?—three seconds?
What this girl WANTS to think
about is SEX.
As his hands slip subtly over her collar-bone and down
to the petite swell of her breasts, Harry contemplates whether all these mixed
up religious traditions are to blame for this anti-sex world he faces. Is this
some olden B.C. law that people are still following? Before human beings were
stupid enough to form this terrible thing called “civilization,” were cavemen
and women smart enough to spend the majority of each day doing the stone-age
equivalent of what he and Charity were doing now? Of course they had to do the
whole hunting and gathering thing, sure, but otherwise there wasn’t much to
distract them from Steamy Caveman Sex.
But had cavemen had the insight
to spend all their time getting frisky, Harry wonders as he reaches his fingers
under Charity’s plaid skirt, then why did they waste time getting around to
inventions like the wheel? Who needs the wheel when one can have sex? Were
they hoping to transport themselves more quickly in the winter to a warmer
climate where they could have more sex, or was the wheel originally some kind of
primitive kinky sex contraption?
“Oh!” Charity moans as Harry’s fingers conclude their prolonged crawl
across her thigh, having reached their wet, juicy destination. What the hell
compels people like her to waste their time going to school so they can work in
an office where she will no doubt wear a sleek black suit that will make every
one of her male colleagues think about sex that they will never be able to
mention to her for fear of being called a pervert? What kind of a sick world is
this where a man can’t tell a women “hey, I’d really like to have sex with you”
and get exactly what he wants?
He of course doesn't mean that in an
anti-feminist way, either, Harry assures himself, his fingers working like magic
inside of this hot, blond, future customer service representative for some
low-life company that will pay her more than several of her peers based on her
looks and whether or not she puts out. Harry thinks women should be able to get
exactly what they want from men, too. He knows that if a woman walked up to him and
said, “hey, I want to have sex with you,” he’d go for it in a second. Just think
of how much less conflict there would be in the world if societies across the
globe could accept that all any of us really wants is that same basic need. Sex.
The question remains largely unasked and unanswered: How can something as
universally appealing as sex be swept under the rug and remain taboo in
“civilized” conversation? Human beings’ biologically ingrained desire for sex
is classified as one of our basic needs for survival, right up there with food
and shelter. But instead of accepting that sex itself is worthy commodity,
Capitalism finds a way to package the idea of sex in music, movies,
advertisements and video games while still somehow making real sex look dirty
and bad. For instance, in 2002 Britney Spears admitting that she had actually
had sex was cause for huge uproar, despite the fact that she’d been prancing
around half-naked for a screaming audience of pre-teens since “Baby One More
Time” in 1999. Similarly, graphic sex scenes in movies which seem real are okay
as long as the actors aren’t really having sex; but it is absolutely unacceptable to place hardcore porn even in the same vicinity as the smutty, fake-sex movies available at
Blockbuster.
And nobody questions it! Harry marvels, recalling how many times he’s
been called a pervert for trying to get as much real action as he can, while his
friends sit at home ogling the digitized pseudo-sexiness of scantily-clad
Dead or Alive Beach Volleyball players on their Xbox. Even if we pretend that
sex is just for reproduction, he ponders, it makes absolutely no sense that
sexual innuendo is more socially acceptable than just really having sex.
Worn out from their lusty fits of passion, Harry and Charity hold each other
until they silently fall asleep beneath the all-knowing bed sheets and dream in
illogical patterns about crashing waves and everything else Freud has warned is
a subconscious depiction of intercourse. Charity goes home the next morning,
feeling terribly hung over, and drinks a lot of coffee before pulling up her
laptop to diligently slave over the homework for her business management class
as she tries to forget about what a slut she is. Harry never calls her again.
He finds a half-Latina stewardess named Juanita who’s looking for some fun on a
Sunday night and so he goes on living his dream.