Love, Sex

The Dumber You Are, The Better The Sex?

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There are times when I just wish I was straight-up dumber than a coffee cup of squirrel crap. This mostly has to do with the fact that I'm starting to believe that the dumbest people are having the best sex. Seriously. Think about it.

Remember that show "Jersey Shore"? (You do, trust me.) Look at those people.

I'm not saying they weren't street-smart or whatever, but c'mon, let's be honest. Snooki and J-Wow and The Situation weren't exactly tripping over each other's barbells to listen to NPR in the afternoons, you know? But then again, they sure did seem to be having a lot of sex. And I'm guessing it had to be pretty good sex, too, since they usually went back down to the club and wrangled up more, like 14 hours later.

Then again, maybe I'm just trippin'.

Here's the backstory: I've been separated from my wife for about 8 months now (separate homes and the works), and with that comes the splayed-out dry spell of chaste sexual desert where I currently hang. So yeah, there's a distinct possibility that me and my idealized vision of "Jersey Shore"-style screwing is yet another sign that I've officially lost my mind.

Still, I tend to think these anti-intellectual types are having a hell of a lot more wild sex than people like me, people who try to read critically-acclaimed fiction and watch foreign films and try and keep their minds wide-open to new and progressive ideas. Don't get me wrong, I love sex as much as the next fella, it's just that sometimes I feel like the whole "emotional attachment" part of grown-up, intelligent sex sort of gums up the works.

Throughout my life, I've sometimes felt this pair of "good guy" arms holding me back from my rightful place in the sun, perched and balanced on the bedpost with a bottle of cheap tequila and a pair of electric handcuffs. There's this gentleman's creed that I've always tried to follow: Treat every sexual partner as if this tender moment might crack her fragile neck if she isn't handled with boundless grace. But I don't know if it's made much difference. I've often wondered if the whole premise of "making love" actually crashes up against the very primal origins of "f*cking"? And that led me to wonder if the hot sex of my wildest imagination would be more of a reality if I just let my guard down and helped my partner do the same.

Ugh. It's really confusing. Unless you're really dumb, in which case you usually follow your inner horndog mountain gorilla and probably end up as the best lay she's ever had.

With all that in mind then, I'm guessing that epic sex on a regular basis, even with the same person over and over, should be as chaotic and fiery as two small planes colliding in a dense fog of lust and Friday night booze breath. I'm thinking that people like me should just stop overthinking stuff. We need to be more like dragons or something. There's no way dragons are all that chivalrous in the bedroom, right? Dragon sex is proper sex; friggin' dragons scorch the skin off your backfat because one second they're projectile vomiting scorching flames down your throat and the next minute they're trying to hump your damn forehead from a holding pattern in the sky above the bed.

I don't know about you, but doesn't that sound more badass and satisfying than just about anything in the world? It does to me. I know I want my body charred by a lover's late-night dragon breath. Hell, it's not like I'd have to cheat or anything either. No need to shake off the idea of monogamy for any of this. Monogamous people would probably dig the liberation from another romp down the whole Sunday morning cuddle-rubbing trail. To hell with that vanilla. Life's too short.

Here's the deal.

Intellectual people/arty people/over-educated people/foodies/people who devour fat novels on the subway and then like to unwind with a glass of wine in a midtown fern bar after work with two carefully chosen friends who also have lame sex: all of these people make life interesting and make for good conversationalists. They really do. I know this because I'm one of them, and trust me, I spend way too much time with me.

But are we having the best sex? I think not.

I'm floating this idea out there more as a question than answer. What do we make of this idea that so many of us aren't having the kind of sex that we could have if we agreed to just just dumb things down a notch or two. Maybe it's time to treat sex like what it is (physical bliss), and not what it isn't (a means to some greater end)?

Every Buddy Holly-glasses-wearing neo-successful semi-hipster thinks he's pretty good in bed, they all THINK that what they're getting when they conscientously cuddle-screw their mate is the best sort of sexual fulfillment this life has to offer, but I have my doubts. Sure, you can turn your nose up at the "Jersey Shore" types banging each other across the locked stall of the men's room at the local TGI Friday's, but that's your problem. They're still usually the ones feasting on life in there, among, ahem, other things.

Tonight somewhere in America, a broom closet in some restaurant hallway is going to get rocked so hard it'll smell like neanderthal for a month. And I'm placing my bets that it's the meathead who's getting the goods.

'Cause it sure ain't me.