Sex & Politics

When I was in school, the mandatory word to address a teacher, or another student, or any other person, used to be ‘comrade’ and not Mrs. or Mr.

Nevertheless, I kept saying Sir and Ma’am to teachers. Until the secretary of the communist youth organization admonished me about my bourgeois behaviour. In a public meeting.

“Madam […], I wouldn’t call you a comrade because you are a Madam to me, you teach me English and I owe you more respect than to any of my fellow students,” I answered her. Thank goodness that she had a healthy sense of humour.

Up to a point, not without a thrill, one could make a parody of the communist regime. Unless some solemn moron would have written a report to the superior forums, derailing one’s education, ending one’s career, or worse.

Growing behind the Iron Curtain taught me a few little things: that freedom of speech is not a given; that there were years when students have been sent to gulags for writing with a green pen; that social justice is a fancy name for Stalin’s institutional paranoia; that egalitarianism has always been hijacked by retards as a cushy way of climbing the hierarchy; that where speech is censored, there’s only a matter of time before tanks will roll.

Today, for the first time, I’ve heard of Bill C-16 of the Canadian Human Rights Acts. Canada seems to have a peculiar way of playing with fire.

The bill adds “gender identity or expression” to the list of prohibited grounds of discrimination in the Canadian Human Rights Act and the list of characteristics of identifiable groups protected from hate propaganda in the Criminal Code.

Okay, enough with politics. Let’s talk about sex. I used to be a straight male, married to my lovely wife, father of her children, etc., until she turned me gay. OMG, how’s that possible? Simple, she had me pegged.

But that’s not gay!, rattles the majority on both sides of the aisle. Really? Begging for it, cleaning the kitchen, taking the garbage out, listening to every word she speaks, obeying her orders, wishing to be her slave, taking pleasure in her spanking palms, desiring to see her control you, like a man would dominate a woman, reversing roles, exchanging lingerie, etc., I find it quite queer.

Besides, you’ll find a lot of posts about why a long and happy marriage turns the roles, why two best friends making love to each other for decades will push their curiosities around to every unexplored corner. Because the central sexual organ is the BRAIN – so in woman as in man.

Here a fragment from one of Doris’ posts on cuckoldry and thinking lesbian.

They say that, after twenty-five years of living together, a couple would casually wear each other’s socks, or clothes, or lingerie. This is gay! Both the fun part and the queer aspect. But allow me to daydream a bit please. Do I enjoy seeing myself fellating strangers on a beach? Touching beer bellies and hairy scrotums? Do I wish to take another dick in me? No way on earth!! I just can’t even fantasize about this. Why? Because love making is when you love the soul of someone — enough to accept his (her) body imperfections, or natural occurrences. Besides, my love making is (or should be) ninety percent cuddling and caressing and massaging. Orgasmic sex, changing fluids, athletic pounding, screaming and blowing, all of these are more than enough in the remaining ten percent. Love making is touching and talking, feeling and understanding, sharing and dreaming together with your soul mate. The rest is fantasy.
Oh yes, back to my lesbian fantasies. IF I am to step a phantasm down this page, then this would come from the Sapphic dimension. Fancy snuggling with no penetration but delicious soft touches and most sweet tastes.

If you’ve been happily married for thirty years, then such fantasies won’t surprise you. Actually, for the more courageous, there is swinging and wife dogging, a world away from this kind of sissy-pussy-porn that we’ve been indulging in for years.

Doris has an aunt, happily married to her man for fifty years. She rules the house with an iron fist, a candid one. He is most happy to do every imaginable chore, he likes knitting in his spare time, or to crochet little patterns. His life long hobby is photography. Rings a bell?

Comes the question: what would be the ‘gender identity or expression’ for long lasting married couples where the man has turned into a woman and the woman into a man? With an option to switch back anytime. The freedom to be who you love.

Pansexuality, or omnisexuality, is the sexual, romantic or emotional attraction towards people regardless of their sex or gender identity. Pansexual people may refer to themselves as gender-blind, asserting that gender and sex are not determining factors in their romantic or sexual attraction to others.

Pansexuality may be considered a sexual orientation in its own right or a branch of bisexuality, to indicate an alternative sexual identity. Because pansexual people are open to relationships with people who do not identify as strictly men or women, and pansexuality therefore rejects the gender binary, it is often considered a more inclusive term than bisexual. To what extent the term bisexual is inclusive when compared with the term pansexual is debated within the LGBT community, especially the bisexual community.

Am I a pansexual then? Should I identify myself based on my gender identity or expression? If you wish to, then good for you. Like in fashion: today I wear beige, tomorrow I’d go for mauve, in the morning, then try some peach for the evening and a full blown tomato red for next morning. But you, by all means, you have the freedom to wear military green all week long. It is your choice. Such as mine is to go color gay, every day.

Boxes are grey, dark and dirty brown, regardless of the colors you pick. Hiding yourself in a box is not going to make you happy. On the contrary. Sooner or later, you’ll see the box for what it is, you’ll get bored of it and will try to escape but what if –sadly– it would be too late. Because the letter of the law had you tagged already, comrade!

Yes, Ma’am, I wake up fucking straight early before dawn (consuming the glory of the morning wood), then waltzing a sixty-nine later on, only to feel the need of a good cock up my ass by noon.

And I don’t like being called ‘comrade.’

Photo by Adam Freeman on Unsplash

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