By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
By Charles Lam
A gay guy who went to my high school had one of those canvas covers for his car, and that automotive tent was where he and his buddy would repair, going at it parked right on his quiet residential street in Corona del Mar.
"I'm not a prude; I've been around some in my day. But there are things that are sacred in American life. What are we supposed to do, just go fuck?" So mused Roy Rogers—yes, the Roy Rogers—in the December 1975 issue of Esquire magazine.
The answer for a lot of folks was evidently, "Sure, okay, whatever," and the decades of unabated rutting commenced. I missed most of it. I was convinced that you're supposed to love just that one special person in your life, and it was only after a goodsome number of those one special persons had gone by the wayside that I started thinking that maybe some heedless carnal pleasure wouldn't be so bad.
But it was too late for me. I realized this one night when I was in bed with a woman nearly half my age, who kept saying things like, "Fuck me harder. You can fuck me just as hard as you like," when I was already fucking her twice as hard as I'd ever want to fuck anyone.
Along with being entirely too much work—I considered hiring some day laborers to finish up for me—it struck me that it was a different generation's sex, one that had been raised with video games, blow-'em-up movies and bam-bam-bam electronica, where you're pounded with sensation every damn second. I'm more inclined to an Exile on Main Street pace of events. Van Morrison or Sade works pretty good, and the more I age, the better Frank Sinatra sounds in the background.
Hey, just in time for Valentine's Day, Reprise records has issued Sinatra's Greatest Love Songs, which, the press release says, "includes 'All the Way,' Sinatra's posthumously recorded duet with international superstar Celine Dion." I can only assume the release fulfills some request of the late singer's, such as, "Yeah, I'd like to sing with her—when I'm dead and buried." Though Dion's not exactly bam-bam-bam electronica, the difference between her nonstop emotionless emoting and Sinatra's lived-in lyricism is pretty much what I'm talking about.
My point, basically, is this: you only think you're having a good time, all you young'uns out there piling atop one another in endless combinations of moist collegiate flesh. Listen to me, the new Ecclesiastes of sex: all is vanity. Give it up. Put down that spatula and Everett Dirksen-shaped vibrator. Join the Navy and see the world.