On Eating Pussy

I am unwinding after work, listening to the Gang of Four, and thinking about cunnilingus, wrestling, pinball, and getting fucked by horses. I hope you’ll indulge me if I wander in a few odd directions... Sex seldom surfaces on my blog, but it's time for a bit of variety.

The thing is: when does one get to REALLY have a profound impact on another person's body? Sure, hugging, cuddling, touching - for two people to just hold each other in bed - these are all very pleasurable and relaxing and meaningful experiences, natch. Massage, too. But for a man of peace and intellect - an aesthete, what Robert Stone terms an “athlete of perception;” for someone who does not wrestle, slap backs, or jostle with others in normal circumstances, if he can help it - the most profound and dramatic effect he can hope to produce on another's body while keeping in character is to make someone else come. (I prefer adapting the usual verb “to come” than adopting some silly alternate spelling. I can keep the two meanings separate just fine without requiring a new word, thanks).

Well, that and slamdancing, I suppose. These are the two situations when I contact most radically with the flesh of others: eating pussy and moshing. Really, I’m serious. And I haven’t moshed in months - Nomeansno can’t come soon enough, I tellya.

Do any of y’all know Iggy Pop's "Turn Blue?" His imperative, bluntly stated: "Gotta make somebody COME?" ...I mean, I understand the force of that directive. There is something very satisfying about giving a woman an orgasm, no shit. The bigger the better. It proves ones reality - for someone fairly cerebral, it powerfully reassures one that he is alive, whole, physical in a way that writing, thinking, talking, etc., can't. (Pardon my use of male pronouns here. Women who like to eat pussy are just great in my book; but I’m thinkin’ of MYSELF here, mostly - even while sticking to the second and third person - and the gendered pronoun follows thus). You become embodied in a powerful way: you know you can actually have a REAL IMPACT on REAL THINGS, as evinced by the twitchin' shudderin' pile of ecstatic female flesh below you, and thus can experience and take pleasure in your own reality: “Look what I did!”

I mean, if I were a boxer, a wrestler - even if I climbed mountains or surfed or swam or bungee jumped or such, experiencing my physicality thus - I might not feel this powerful hankering in my jaw and in my soul to eat (and finger: don't forget the fingers) pussy. But I don’t, so I do. It’s also less complicated, at least to someone currently without a gym membership, to find someone who wants her pussy eaten than it is to find people to wrestle with. And the payoff is so much more satisfying - not the defeat of the other, the pinned male body below you - but the sight of the gal lightin’ up like a pinball machine, goin’ DING DING DING DING DING. It’s NEAT! When I think about hooking up with women for sex - God’s truth here - I’m generally more excited about the prospect of making THEM reach orgasm than I am about the likelihood of my doing so. I mean - I can achieve orgasm any old time - just give me a few minutes, and presto. It’s no great feat. Paul Westerberg, back when the Replacements were cool, once answered a question for a pop music interview that his “greatest achievement” was orgasm; part of the reason this is funny is because the male orgasm is no great achievement at all. I mean, hell, I can still occasionally have one at night by completely involuntary means. How hard can it be, if you can do it in your sleep?

Charles Mudede said something memorable in the interview I did with him about Zoo, the very provocative and surprisingly aesthetically rewarding documentary co-written by himself and director Robinson Devor, which dealt with the Enumclaw horsefucking case (which Mudede elsewise writes about here). In short, the film deals with various controversies and challenges that arose after a Boeing aerospace engineer, who went by the pseudonym Mr. Hands, was fatally injured whilst having "receptive" sexual relations with a horse in a barn in Washington State. The full interview was ultimately published in CineAction, though a much shorter version of the article, altered a bit, ran in the Georgia Straight; I had initially titled it, "They Fuck Horses, Don't They," which, alas, they did not go for (a joke that I figure would only work in Vancouver - the name of the local band, They Shoot Horses, Don't They, has more cultural currency than the title of the old movie on which it draws). His quote bears repetition in this context. I had asked Mudede if he thought there was meant to be a class element in his presentation of the various “animal sex people” interviewed in the film. He agreed emphatically, going on to say:

Mudede: I mean, a lot of the guys – if you’re a ranch hand (H.) or a truck driver (the Happy Horseman) or if you come from rural Virginia (Coyote), you’re not in the same class as a guy who is writing code for Boeing. You’re not. And he is, he’s writing code, not just for Boeing, but for Boeing’s secret military interests. So he’s a genius. Nobody wakes up today and starts to cipher and work through mathematical codes of that sophistication, at that level... We’re talking about the leading airplane corporation in the world, and he was a member, an engineer – not just a low one, but a distinguished engineer, for that corporation. So, definitely, he had other issues... And quietly I will say, I always felt this... In that break between him and the others, one could see, because of his technological and intellectual headiness, and the fact that he was a mathematician, a man of the mind – which he is; there’s no other way you can sort out radar code without having a serious mathematical background – the fact that he was a man of the mind may have resulted in his weakness of body! You know what I mean, you can almost see, there’s that accusation, particularly coming from Happy Horseman, that he couldn’t take it, that he was not earthy enough, he was not man enough, he was too much in the head.

MacInnis: That he’s trying to escape from his own cerebral nature –

Mudede: And it failed. It’s something we didn’t get into in depth because there wasn’t enough material, but we did try to hint at that definite sense that it was not classless entirely (as the zoophiles assert in the narration). There were class issues here, and Mr. Hands was a person who was in his head, for the most part. And as for what he was trying to do with his body and the horses, he was trying to find a way to make the body come alive, in a way that he felt it hadn’t done in his work.

On reflection, I think, in fact, that Mudede is only half-right in his theory about what drove Mr. Hands. He is certainly explaining the need for sex, as a way to “make the body come alive,” but he could just as well be speaking about inducing a good G-spot orgasm, or coming in one orifice or another of a fellow human, or being fucked in the ass by all manner of things other than a horse. Perhaps the body comes more fully alive under completely bestial circumstances - or maybe Mr. Hands was too shy or awkward in pursuing beasty ol' sex with other people, more comfortable seeking his fulfillment by other means, or in need of something even more intense than anything he could get from a person - but it’s not just the need to make the body come alive that had him turning to the barn. It was the need to make the body come alive, plus some blockage or excess elsewise. I mean, he had been married, had a child - it wasn’t like he was celibate.

Anyhow, I’m not quite at the point yet where I’m going to start looking for a barn (or a gym, or whatever), but I tell you, folks - I need to give someone an orgasm soon, darn soon. It's been a couple of months now and I'm knotting up inside. Maybe it’s just that I can achieve catharsis, a release of stress, more successfully by vicarious means - “to give is better than to receive,” as they say. Maybe it’s just that the female orgasm is inherently cooler than the male’s, more dramatic, more entertaining to behold. In any case, I tellya, folks: I gotta go down on someone soon, or I’m gonna go nuts. The pent up stress is worse than any Deadly Semen Backup you can imagine... "gotta make somebody COME"...