“Up to date, I do not envy the birds. For while dumb beasts like you and I can admire the lurid beauty of the sky, they are but a piece, blinded from the inside, this mantle of a work of art.” 

It’s a weird thing when you become more intellectually aware of your sexuality. This is something I became recently conscious of. One of those things where you look down and realized, oh right, I’m a mammal. But on some levels, it’s more in depth than that, and hopefully much more romantic as well.

Kidding aside, maybe it’s the lack of grounding in our obnoxious North American discussions, but questions arose surrounding my role in perpetuating the way a modern screen can offer so much leeway for absolute bullshit in the fields of sexual release. In hopeful terms, we otherwise referred to the field as romance, back in the days when people actually spoke to each other and if dared to, used the precise pick up lines they do today. I recently read a public comment stating that one could say anything, anything at all and offend somebody in our Western culture, as it will be most absurdly taken in retort to attack racism, sexism, ageism, degradation etc. Truer words have not been said. On that note, I wondered to myself as the posting was regarding the way our current generation sort of folds on top of itself in ridicule of the very same crowd leering after each other on social media exchanges, should I be in accusation of integrating this stigma?

While a typical stranger can be told off as harassment in their sexual advances over text message, I asked myself what of those mutually consented exchanges ? What about the honesty and trust in pushing buttons and feeling out boundaries in a new relationship? An area I did not necessarily care to tread too deeply into, but had a fair share of in the least. It seemed so emotionally disconcerting how quickly one became removed after exposure to the presence of a trending stupidity in explicit expressionism. Its as if, the arguably most blessed continent in the world could not exercise its rights to its inner asshole enough.

I no longer understand the behind-the-scenes gestures that may provoke the obscenity that is made to eclipse for the most part, how our culture decidedly chose to speak out in the freedom of their sexuality. There is simply no more taboo, apart from personal discretion, of any terribly disturbed coupling that could take place today. While I may bravo the gals that stand their ground in the face of constant direct advances, I find a part of myself doubling back on the true intentions of why we put ourselves out there in the first place. Why display ourselves and write a short bio to try and encompass something so much more, to state even that the females (in most cases) are not looking for a casual encounter, in presumably one of the most casually taken places for mixed matches.

For how much of this influence actually took root in my mind, I battle with constantly. I mean to say that I know perfectly respectable women and men alike who have taken the former route and I say to myself well, “wouldn’t it all be so much easier?” For sure, its akin to casting a wide net and just seeing whether or not you still have the game, even if there was no intention to bite the bait thereafter. Psychologically speaking, perhaps it has more to do with an ego boost and self optimism to know that you’re still desirable. At this point, and I do hope this applies to beyond myself, I wonder what are the percentages of people, and once again I feel this applies to females (in my experience) that would actually translate the above ego boost to a physical connection in which they would feel just as sexually liberated. For me, there’s been a huge disconnect. That supposed lineage to gathering your arms for when you will need them showed to be only a tangent from the full circle you were looking to discover. Not in the least fulfilling at all.


From this remark, I started taking time in front of the mirror to simply examine my bare body. There’s nothing flattering under bathroom fluorescent lights so I ask myself, “Do I like what I see?” – the way the lines of the female body sensually glide into each other; how the eye naturally follows the lines from the arch of our back to how the shadow of the pelvic bones beautifully compliments the subsiding abdomen, where further upwards the soft fall of my breasts crave out their own share towards the truest form of femininity, and above them the deep indentation at the collarbones nestle with ease; it always reminds me of a sharp intake of breathe, like it can’t handle the image it’s faced with. Maybe its another placebo ego boost, but one that is slowly imprinting its genuine acceptance on the physical being. I’ve started to like it.

For one, you might actually be able to compatibly fit the image of yourself into a sexual fantasy. Not everything unfolds like porn after all, but I wouldn’t be on any level of disappointment.


Now when I walk out on to the street, just sitting at a coffee shop or exiting a doorway onto a busy downtown sidewalk, I was taken as of recent to the perhaps illusion that I was missing out on so much potential. Like the other day having a tall gangly gentleman interrupt my line to the mall entrance, “sorry” he said, and it was a shy smile he gave despite his casually reserved appearance. A few minutes later I found the both of us passing each other on the street, our respective umbrellas bobbing along under the Vancouver rain. If he did perchance saw me and gave that same shy smile to himself, would I spark enough of an interest for a conversation? What if just one party had enough guts to do something about that devil we call our inner flirt – a sorely underrated lost art that should be reassessed with no particular invitation, but just as a simple engagement. Treat it like foreplay. Stimuli to our natural nerves, above the hustle and bustle of day to day life. I walk away in my long fall coat and my knee high boots, and I simply dare someone to approach me. I think it would shock people in how naive my reaction may be, in contrast to how sophisticated they may have originally gauged my impression. Reading through the many real life scenarios of current men and women bypassing each other in strings of morbidly funny and sadly disengaging conversations over text messages and internet exchanges, I can’t help dreaming otherwise.

A smart remark. A grounded sense of self. A wicked smile, a softness to your eyes, or whichever your most striking feature may be. Give me a hard time. Laugh. Have the best sex of your life because now you’re only starting to see that the person you’re holding in your arm represents in their own way a whole universe. Every star and galaxy in the sky – there are some dark spaces in between those overlooked brilliance of pure cosmic energy – a supernova does indeed happen. Then of course that energy is fed off, taken apart, once again among vast uncharted spaces. And that’s how sex and our individual sexuality should be, if you wouldn’t mind taking my words for it.