3 min

Libido on a jet plane

Sexual preoccupation is essential

Credit: Xtra files

What about that ravenous daisy chain when I was 19?

What about the time I was a piss bottom for three stacked leather papas, and got so carried away with the thrill of pee in my face that I started singing the theme from Alice?

What about the thought of Pete Sampras, bent over and spread open, his hairy portal seizing and releasing, seizing and releasing, seizing and releasing? What about that?

Beats me. No, wait. I should say, “I have no idea.” “Beats me” has a vaguely sexual ring to it, and I no longer care about sex. If sex was a song, I’d fast forward through it. If sex was a young urban professional crossing the street, I’d run it over with my car and drag it along unknowingly until I reached my home, where I would sit down with a glass of milk and watch The Antiques Road Show.

For someone who, through a haze of horniness, misheard his grandma’s last words (which were, in fact, “Such peace,” not “Such a piece!”), this turn of events is totally disorienting. How do I fill the days, now that I don’t care about sex?

I am reminded of the time I stopped caring about food, and suddenly found myself with free time where lunchtime used to be. If only I could remember what I did to fill the time that time I stopped eating… oh yeah, anal. Dammit!

Forcing yourself to have sex when you are desperately not into it is, as Liza Minnelli’s new husband David Gest will attest, incredibly enervating. The problem doesn’t lie with my (virile, endlessly charismatic) lover when I lie with my lover; still, as he coos and ruts atop me, I contort my face like a Bell’s Palsy victim and think about folding serviettes into interesting shapes.

I’ve even lost interest in porn, which I used to have playing in the background at all times, the way other people have CHUM FM on, in lieu of friendship. Sure, I still force myself to buy porn, but my most recent purchase tells the flaccid tale: The Best Of Shaved, Lubed And Reading Family Circle.

It would be facile to chalk up my newfound neuteredness to the aging process. Witness, next time you’re at the baths, all the old-timers with gigantic erections chugging up and down the aisles in their scooters. Why, I once met an otherwise vital, 135-year-old man at the St Marc. This seasoned charmer was so anachronistic that he prefaced all his sex talk with “ye olde.” “Place ye olde mouth upon ye olde spark. Cup ye olde balls with ye olde hand.” But that didn’t stop him from spewing geyser after geyser of chalky, dust-like substance.

No, I’m definitely not too old to love ye olde you-know-what.

Maybe I’m just trying to reassure myself, but it seems to me that the whole world is turning away from sex. Hemlines are at their lowest in years, and necklines at their highest (just below the heel and just above the nose, for those of you who don’t read Vogue.)

I popped into my local leather bar the other night, and do you know what was playing on every TV monitor? Steel Magnolias. And do you know what all the semi-nude, resident drunkards were doing in response to Steel Magnolias? They were crying, fanning themselves and talking to the screen, as if my local leather bar had turned into an old-time, deep south revivalist church. And maybe it has.

People who still like sex simply aren’t safe anymore. It’s a fact that the entire cast and crew of Sex And The City are forced to seek refuge in a disused septic tank in between takes, lest they be maced and shot.

All right, all right. I am not going to hide my libidinous shortcomings behind an idiotic cultural forecast. I am frigid. Me and me alone. And Halle Berry. And everyone in ‘N Sync. And that’s it.

I once asked my mother, shortly before she died, if she had ever performed oral. She set down the gigantic ball of string that she always held (her last years were very high concept) and said, “Is that where the lady takes the man’s jing and acts like it’s food? Perish the thought! I bet some Nazi war crime sicko came up with that piggish no-no.”

I scoffed at the time, but lately the thought of “jing” as food is as off-putting to me as it was to my dadaist mama. Which just won’t do.

Sexual preoccupation is essential, if only to keep you from thinking about the ricketty out house that is the rest of one’s life. And so, I will now attempt to revive my mojo.