"Why all these conflicting specifications?
Maybe to prevent overpopulation"
The Dresden Dolls - Shores of California
Hear ye, hear ye!
Having painstakingly analyzed all available data, I have arrived at a groundbreaking discovery:
Sex isn't real.
It doesn't exist. Nobody has had, is having or will ever have sex. It's all porn-industry special effects, a mysterious unprovable phenomenon only rumored to happen to rock stars, like Bigfoot, holy visions or alien abductions. It has no place in reality. Any experiences you think you remember from back in the mists of time happened only in your dreams, like soap-opera deaths. Babies? They're planted by Monsanto and marketed by Walmart.
Such sophistry may seem like a novel approach but for many men and a few women it's safer than our alternative hypothesis: that several dozen or hundred possible sexual partners swarming around us all our daily lives and by extension the entire species have by some conspiratorial consensus declared us each unfit specimens, unworthy genetic filth, untouchable in a very literal sense.
It's the only sane approach... or at least the only one which may preserve sanity. In fact, I'm pretty sure nobody else on the planet besides me even has genitals. I'm just a solitary freak. So there.
...
How serious am I being here? Not very, though there's of course an element of truth to it. In order to quiet the howling daimon of our instinct to free our minds up for more elevated concerns, most of us should be having a lot more sex than we are currently. Retaining individual sanity in the face of the social impossibility of this demand requires some discipline or another of mental gymnastics.
On the other hand, I must protest the lesser popular incarnation of my above-stated "cabbage patch" philosophy which goes by the name of involuntary celibacy. I am not involuntarily celibate. At some point in my life, after various interactions with women, I came to the conclusion that sexual relationships are simply not worth their exceedingly steep price tag.
Were I willing to enslave myself to the women around me, to spend every waking moment vying for their attention, to bankrupt myself showering gifts upon them, to get thrown in jail for sexual harassment on their whim and still come back begging for more, to absorb their insults and feed them constant compliments, to play the fool currying favor while women laugh at me, to accept my role as a beta male funding a woman to raise some alpha male's children, to risk getting raped to death in prison because anything and everything men do these days is interpreted as rape, to live my life as an accessory to women's nest-building, to accept every demeaning snark and snarl at my masculinity, the worth of my potential service to women, as my defining feature - then yes, I would eventually get back in the game, as the popular saying goes.
I hesitate, reconsider and repeatedly choose not to do so. I have found the grapes indeed much too sour for my taste. The use of sex in human society as a tool of interpersonal and societal control makes desire undesirable. I am not involuntarily celibate. I am involuntarily human. Celibacy's merely the best choice under such unfortunate circumstance.
Now as far as artistic expression goes, while sex certainly cannot be ignored, the abuse of sexuality for cheap appeal in every book, movie, song, game and... ida know, woven rug? We kinda tend to sexualize everything. In any case, fictionalized sexuality in most of its forms is completely out of place. That, however, is a topic for another time.
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