There Will Be a Last Time

This week’s Esoterotica theme was “The Future of Sex.” I took an unusually pragmatic approach compared to my usual style.


On the subject of sex in the future… I don’t know how to broach this subject tactfully. You might not want this to happen but it’s not necessarily something you have control over: everybody here needs to realize there is going to be a Last Time That You Have Sex. I know that I currently plan on living forever, but when I was 16 I planned on having sex with Christina Ricci in one of those hotel rooms with a giant mirror on the ceiling and you would have heard about that on stage by now if it happened. What I’m saying is I want to be prepared for the worst-case scenario: not that I will die, but that there will be some sexless amount of time in between my death and my final sexual incident. Whenever, with whomever, and on whomever else’s couch that may be.

Everybody says that dying during sex would be the best way to go, but I object to that. I like having goals — part of the fun of any individual sexual encounter is thinking of the ways you didn’t get to do it that one time and anticipating which of those ways you’re going to do after about twenty minutes of pillow talk, and which ways you’ll save for the next morning because there’s going to be an opened bottle of maple syrup around for that. So no, no dying during sex for me. That syrup was expensive.

So, how do I cope with the fact that there will be a period of time in which I will not get laid again? Either due to various failings of my (currently-quite-capable I’ll have you know) body, or just due to random circumstance.

Should I specifically plan a point at which I’ll just… retire from sex? Maybe when I’m in my 70s, just organize one big mind-blowing and everything-else-blowing sexual escapade to totally extinguish all erotic desire I might have after that point? A big sexual fireworks stand getting lit up that nothing else will compare to because I popped my eardrums and burned off my eyebrows in the process, metaphorically or otherwise depending on how kinky I actually feel at that age?

Maybe some of you have that amount of self-control. I have an overactive imagination — I don’t think that I could stop dreaming up people I’d want to touch my dick for howeverlong I lived after the fact. Like many artists I’m also terribly self-critical and I would keep worrying about previous times when I hadn’t performed my best, knowing that I’d never be able to improve upon them. Every time I have sex now is, on some level, an attempt to apologize for those times in high school when I thought licking the alphabet was as good as anybody would ever need to be with foreplay.

What if I die unexpectedly? I could just die this weekend — would I be satisfied that my last roll in the hay was in that bright golden kind of hay you see in cartoons, and not the dingy green stuff you see on real farms?

The practical solution, since you never know when your boots may knock their last: treat every sexual experience as though it may the final one. Don’t just go home with someone because whatthehey you’re hard-up and they’ll do, go home with somebody because their gaze has you hypnotized like that snake in the Jungle Book and they’re practically engulfing you already. If you make a beast with two or more backs, make it the apex predator. Thrust every thrust as though you were trying to bury it deep enough that anybody who could pull you out would be crowned the one true king of England. Be attentive and giving and make an impression on your partners, in the physical sense if that’s what they’re into. It’s trite to say that you’ll live on in their memories, but specifically, you can live on in the kind of memories their future partners would feel a little insecure about if they knew they were still having ’em.

And because I know what you expect of my writing at this point I’ll wrap up by saying “go out with a BANG.” Ba-dum tssh.

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