I’ve been waiting for it. Thinking about it. Fearing it. Dreading it. Hoping against it. Running from it. Losing sleep over it. (Well, not really. More metaphorical sleep lost.)
But it still hasn’t happened. At least not yet. But there are no signs that it ever will. No clues. No cues. No indicators. No inklings. Nothing.
Perhaps I’m still too young. Maybe it’ll start happening next year. In two years. In 10 years. Maybe it’ll happen next month. Maybe it’ll happen tonight.
Maybe it’s my experience and not my age. Maybe I just haven’t reached the critical mass. Or the climax. Or the summit. Or the tipping point. Or the plateau. Or the point of no return. Or whatever the fuck else. Maybe I’m still climbing. Still reaching. Still finding.
And maybe it’s just not going to happen. Ever. Which is great. But it does make things rather anti-climatic. What happens when the other shoe never drops? Shit, what happens when the other shoe doesn’t even exist?
Since I can remember, various sources—cousins, parents, barbers, neighbors, inappropriate neighbors, Michael J. Fox, magazines, textbooks, teachers, nuns, bus drivers, women named Shirley, Radiohead, uncles of women I dated while unemployed for a month in 2002, God, paper Deltas, etc—have either implied or just outright told me that sex would lose its luster as you got older. Basically, you get so used to it and the feelings associated with it that it becomes just another one of the many mundane tasks associated with being a normal human. You even start to get…tired of it. In this sense, sex is no different than brushing your teeth or taking out the trash or trolling Lakers fans by making Kobe 19th on your list of the 20 best basketball players ever.
But—and we’re getting into TMI territory here, but we’re all family so I’m cool with it if you’re cool with it—I had my first recorded orgasm at 14. My first one with another actual living human being came a couple years after that. My last orgasm was, at the time of writing, 20 hours ago. That’s 20 years of sex. Which comes out to roughly 7000 different orgasms (give or take a thousand).
And nothing has changed. Nothing. They each still feel fucking amazing. Like eating bacon for the first time. While skydiving. On Mars. The first one was great! The second one was great! The 22nd one was great! The 6,122nd one was great! The 10,002nd—if I make it there—will be great!
In fact, there is nothing on Earth more predictable than the fact that when you have an orgasm, you’re going to feel great. Not death. Not taxes. Not Scandal. Nothing. Maybe the circumstances surrounding your orgasm will make you feel shitty (“Well, I didn’t know his name, but at least I got some fries“), but that shittiness will be preceded by awesomeness.
I will concede that they were right about one thing. The willingness to go above and beyond to get sex dissipates. Sex is no longer the end all, be all of my universe. I am no longer willing to move mountains, or a mile, or even (sometimes) “over” to get some. “Getting some” is a journey now instead of the destination or some other Zen-sounding bullshit.
But while the willingness to make certain efforts wanes, the results are never not awesome. Never not great. Never not the best thing ever. Never not the great thing that you compare other almost, but not quite as great things to. Never not proof that God exists. (And is in a surprisingly good mood.) Never not a bacon-wrapped slab of bacon in your mouth. While hang gliding. On the moon. While having sex.
So they were all wrong. At least I’m hoping they were. Or maybe they just told me this cause someone told them this too. Which I prefer to believe. Bacon is great. Especially bacon wrapped slabs of it. But it is not sex. Nothing is. And absolutely nothing ever will be. Because absolutely nothing can be.
—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)