Figleaf's Real Adult Sex

On one of the more disreputable control-group websites I visit to see what’s happening in the, um, less progressive parts of the world, I ran across the following comment by one individual about another in a context that made it clear that the former wasn’t personally acquainted with the latter.

I want to go out having a heart attack on top of a girl like this one!

Anyone want to help me list all the things that aren’t even wrong* about that sentiment?

Even on some of the more esoteric levels it’s wrong in the sense that, for instance, we devalue life to such an extent that we imagine that our own deaths would be of no consequence to even nearby strangers, let alone loved ones, friends, acquaintances, neighbors, and — not to put too fine a point on it — anybody one might be “on top of” when one goes “out.”

And whereas such an attitude might be idealized by the du Toit family (it simply never occurred to me that the first name of “Mrs. Kim du Toit” would not be “Kim”), in fact there’s an awesome but tragic amount of alienation built into the idea that one would prefer to die while having sex with a stranger than while surrounded by friends and family that you love and that love you. To have one’s humanity pruned so harshly into the comic topiary we’re supposed to believe is “natural” for our genders is harsh enough — to be so harshly gender-windburned that one would imagine enjoying leaving one’s cooling corpus mundi not merely in the hands of, but in the bed of and across the body of someone who, again from the context, most likely would have not only panicked phone calls to make but also extremely awkward ones, not only personal grieving but largely unsupported-by-one’s-lover’s-family grieving to do afterwards… I dunno. After a while it just adds up.

And whereas it’s possible to imagine it would be pleasurable to die during intercourse, perhaps right after having one’s own last orgasm, there’s a certain… how to put this delicately enough… fucking ultimate stereotypical chauvinist selfishness inherent in such a colossal failure of consideration as to so terminally get one’s self off without concern for one’s partner’s enjoyment… or lack of searingly traumatic memories.

Come to think about it, it also implies a certain lack of physical self-awareness or self confidence. To imagine that sex, even sex with someone much younger than oneself, would give one a heart attack implies all sorts of health and aging disconnects that, again, while in reality must be actively stamped out of human beings, nevertheless is held to be “natural” to masculinity.

Oh yeah, and while the list could go on and on, there’s also a genuinely massive implicit disregard for consent! If there was any chance that one’s partner might collapse and die during sex you’d think you’d want them to let them know so they can decide for themselves if that’s a risk they’d be comfortable with.

Did I miss anything?

Note: I am so not a saint. I’m sure I would also feel attracted to the object of the author’s desire and even fantasize ways things might go if we met, hit it off, entered a relationship no matter how casual, and chose each other as sex partners. (Nor would I be alone with such a fantasy. According to my official textbook here I’m joined by 98% of men and 80% of women in “admitting extradyadic fantasies in the previous two months.”)

Final note: Yes, yes, I’m being entirely too ungenerous. My textbook (what, I was going to pull it out sooner?) also reminds us that fantasies often contain elements that, if actually carried out in real life, would squick the fantasizer. Color me unconvinced on this one but not unconvincable.