I am all for anything that opens up more avenues for humanity to enjoy more sex, although I am still always surprised when I see the moralistic mother-grundies crawl out from beneath their rocking chairs to smear their righteousness across the comment sections of the internet, enraged that they can’t control all the cum being sloshed around outside their precious presence.
While discussion about PrEP (pre-exposure prophylaxis), a preventative drug to combat HIV, may have dredged the heads of the morality police out of their holes, the Ashley Madison hack has brought forth such a tsunami of goody-two-shoes, there is simply no force that can contain the desire to tell everyone else how they should be living their lives. And this is not the usual bible-infused evangelical crew coming to desiccate other people’s morals. A lot of this, my friends, is in-house; our own Huckabees are coming to crap all over our sexual freedom, our liberty to do with our body parts what we like.
It’s not as though we haven’t traversed similar roads before. This entire nation has spent decades policing into whom we might put our genitals. As recently as 2003, ten states prohibited sex up the bum, even within the biblically-venerated man-women relationship, until Lawrence (and Garner—the black guy we traditionally leave out) v. Texas allowed everyone (including gay people) the revolutionary crumb of liberty of being able to bang someone of their own reciprocal choosing in the privacy of their own home. Now, something we have seemingly lost the ability to endorse, even as LGBT+ acceptance and rights, like Channing Tatum working out in a gay gym, sees growth all around.
In fact, as I type this, the Department of Homeland Security, which once used to spend its time protecting us all from terrorists, has used its evidently wide mandate to protect us from rent boys, by dashing an escort agency in New York City, further preventing people from consensually undertaking a relationship where sex is commodified. The government stepped in to save us from the danger of people who are not us, doing something in their own time, in their own residences, with their own money and their own bodies.
But, seemingly, we are doing this to ourselves now. The sexual revolution is getting speed-bumped by some of our own folks, who, now that they have marriage, feel the entire system has been righted; that that assimilation is the same as victory (which, incidentally, would make them to the LGBT+ rights movement what Bobby Jindal is to immigrants).
My husband and I choose to shag each other exclusively. We have a deep friendship with another couple who live their lives and conduct their marriage differently from the way we do, and they have happily been together for over ten years. We have single friends who deserve trophies for their sheer number of trophy boys. We have friends who began dating as a "throuple." We have polyamorous lesbians in our lives, and my current president, Jacob Zuma of South Africa, has four wives. We all choose how we want our relationships, or nonrelationships, to work.
They don’t have to be based in the Bible, or fall within the rules of acceptability most people profess to live by. That’s the joy of being on the side that shreds international preoccupations with the behavior of other people, whether that includes behind-picket-fence fans, swingers, throuples, polyamorists, polygamists, wankers, sluts or the people who wear animal bits and pieces while they bone.
It doesn’t need to be like a prescription: you are allowed to do whatever the hell you want, without Dr. T.J. Eckleburg gazing over you, half-judgmental, half-hard.