Note: This post include descriptions of my personal sex life. If you don’t want to read that, please don’t read the rest of the post.
So on Saturday, Ingrid and I went to the “Perverts Put Out” erotic reading, where I read my “college girl gets spanked by her professor” story… which turned out to be one of the gentler stories in a program that included humiliating gang-bangs and Brady Bunch porn and burly ex-Marines in pink rhumba panties. It’s been a while since the last “Perverts Put Out,” and every one of the readers was in rare form.
Afterwards… well, I’m not going to tell you exactly what we did when we got home last night, but I will tell you that it’s now Sunday night and I’m still sore.
And today, we woke up surrounded by cats, and we had breakfast and read the Sunday paper at our favorite local diner, and we went to the stationery store and the grocery store and the cheese store, and we made chicken stock and vegetarian chili while we wrote our last few much-belated wedding-gift thank-you notes and watched the Simpsons.
I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this… except it’s gotten me thinking about degeneracy and domesticity. I think people often assume that the one precludes the other. We tend to assume that when you make sybartic sensual pleasure a priority in your life, you have to accept instability and chaos as part of the package. And we tend to assume that when you settle down with a partner and a mortgage and a Sisyphian list of household chores, you have to accept that boredom and predictability are the natural result.
But I don’t think that’s true.
I think you can have both. I know you can have both. I’ve had both, just in the last 48 hours.
What I do think is that when you try to have both, you don’t get to have either one to the most lavish extent that you might. Marriage and a mortgage has definitely put a dent in (not to say virtually eliminated) my slutty, casual-sex catting around. I just don’t have time. And making sure that we have sex and dancing and and parties and good food and good liquor and porn writing and reasonably frequent cultural outings in our life does mean that our home life is rather more chaotic than one might like, with piles of junk all over the living room and a chore list that’s just getting longer and nowhere near enough sleep. The domesticity isn’t as domestic — and the degeneracy isn’t as degenerate — as I might have hoped for in a perfect world.
But that’s okay. I refuse to accept that the pursuit of loving domesticity means boredom and quiet desperation, and I refuse to accept that the pursuit of sensual pleasure means restlessness and instability. And I adamantly refuse to accept that the two things are incompatible and that I have to choose one. I do, however, accept that the pursuit of both means compromise. I can have it all, as long as I accept that none of it will be perfect.