I would categorize an insultingly fat swath of the citizenry as those who staunchly refuse to understand ten seconds of any aesthetic (outside their clothes or fave show and including many a fucking fellow writer). This is how the New Yorker memed itself another millionaire with a softcore gender polemic. I believe it was the first mention of sex in the magazine (a banal scolding thereupon, of course, admonishment being the tone worldwide). If we can throw a penny at Bloom’s assessment of the modern poet as Milton’s Satan (how about Darth Vader now, or worse, Kylo Ren), I’m going to say the modern storyteller is Jiminy Cricket if he pissed in his hat. Not to imply Ms. Think-Piece-Inspirer-of-the-Week always rattles a tin cup between the bars of her clitoris to get off. But I refuse to address a topic unless it will somehow socially strangle me if I’m ever scrutinized for one of the aforementioned piss-poor ten seconds.
The internet helped us graduate out of our sexual diapers and toward full-on adolescent retardation in bed. It has become public knowledge that women need to be hornswoggled into lying beneath anyone who does not belong on a scale of handsome doctor to aloof rockstar (the showier end of the detachment spectrum, or we can keep pretending most dedicated dunces don’t immediately inspire that ole tristitia de bono spirituali). Journalists have had their sleazy druthers massively clicked rebranding this shared disappointment as rape (without all that ancient religious fervor our demons got really boring), based on the longstanding contingent of men who use their power to lure innocent victims of whichever inverse puritanical mindset leaves a lady so easily inveigled in the first place. What if your job was to instigate and shit-stir for various propagandistic businesses about the opposing Genghis Khans of industry because they too mouthfuck anyone who holds still short enough to read them?
Bad sex means she didn’t participate and he participated too much. An experienced player trains himself to train a girl into what she wants and shows her his experience like a calling card that will turn to sand if he winds up premature. He is introducing her to her want for him, creating a template for her own reactions she then signs off on with the constant option to revoke. Couple sexual losers forget the dumb truth of these rules and they’ll both resort to her ruling over him with her looks and she’ll be confused when he’s too much of a house pet to rule her back in the moment. That’s when the abuses, on either end (or the false accusations expelled from her end) in place of orgasm, really become a match made in heaven.
In summation: every owned tone at the box social: ass-to-ass polemics, astonished pathos, self-help hip hop, penultimate sentiment, doting existentialism, valley girl aphorisms, brawny perspicacity, drunken argot, rotund martyrdom, ankleted product, fastidious gardening, stenobathic tarot, upward-inflecting androgynies, stochastic tomfoolery, sports biography prose, prestigious, character-steeped minor woes of the moneyed, and general unctuous caterwauling. Could we not try instead: coochie rage, drone bomb whispers, bitterly ironic tip of the tongue tripping over teeth to knife out words, rock-hard bafflement, deadpan repression sobs, actual crimes, and bazooka oracle?
Sean Kilpatrick, raised in Detroit, published or forthcoming at Boston Review, NERVE, New York Tyrant, BOMB, Fence, Columbia Poetry Review, evergreen review, Hobart, Sleepingfish, VICE, Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora, Black Sun Lit, Spork, The Quietus, Whiskey Island, Talking Book, Fanzine, The Malahat Review, LIT, wrote Anatomy Courses (with Blake Butler, Lazy Fascist Press) and Sir William Forsyth’s Freebase Nuptials (Sagging Meniscus Press). http://sean-kilpatrick.tumblr.com