Women are notoriously stereotyped as being romantics in the bedroom. We are often painted as stargazed, sappy love-makers and when placed on top of man, we are best known for our ultimate portrayal of experiencing “the best orgasm ever” brought on by the most romantic of all love-making, respectively.
Unfortunately, I’m one of the women who snarl at romantic cards, sappy movies, and gentle hands caressing my cheeks during a late night kiss. From the day I considered pulling up my skirt, I viewed sex as nothing more than the physical act of intercourse. I’d like to think it was brought on by a devastatingly romantic relationship, but as rumor has it – I’ve come to accept that I’m inherently “cold as ice” and “dead on the inside.” No pun intended.
Sex is not romantic. Sex is here. Sex is gone. Someone enjoys it, someone forgets about it, someone gets pregnant, someone does it with someone else, or someone wants more. Sex is simple. You find what you like, you experiment with others, or you do it alone.
Sex is like a handshake – it’s coming together for a brief moment in time…and then breaking away to go wash your hands and live the rest of your life. Nice knowing you, but I’ve got things to do.
Troubling? There’s more.
I think back to my first relationship, rip it apart, piece it back together, rip it apart again, hoping to find some romance in that teenage love affair. I remember the first time we had sex in his bedroom – parents right outside – and I remember the last time we had sex.
Romantic? Not on my end.
I’m sure it was on his, as he constantly reminded me of how “romantic” our premarital sexcapades were. He even knew the date we first had sex.
Can you hear me gritting my teeth yet?
I think about all of the relationship sex in between where I was sure I was in love.
I think about my relationship now and wonder if I will ever escape or stray.
Why would I ever do such a thing? Because I like the hunt of the kill. I like the chasing, the anxiety, the hunting, the killing – and the best part of it all – the release. Sex has never kept me in a relationship. Sex has never made me leave a relationship. Romance doesn’t sleep in my bedroom, my dog does.
For a lot of people in American culture, sex is a bonding experience, usually involving romance. This bond is said to strengthen relationships and ensure a long lasting bond between people.
“Are you romantic during sex?” a friend asked me. We were in the middle of a romance debate on our lunch break.
“Romantic? No. Sex is either lust or comfort. There is no romance. People think lust is romance, but it’s not. It’s lust! And later on in the relationship, the lust looses luster and becomes – you guessed it – comfort! And with the comfort comes new positions, sex toys and maybe you invite someone new to the mix.”
I felt eyes piercing the side of my face. She almost swerved off the highway.
“Watch where you’re going.”
“So you’ve never felt romance or wanted someone to gaze into your eyes and just tell you that you are the most wonderful part of their life?” She was puzzled. She was concerned. She was scratching to find human flesh under my sweater. She was dangerously veering off onto the shoulder of the road.
As much as I didn’t want to end up nose first in a traffic light pole, I had to be honest and explain. I’m not a romantic gal in the sack – never have been, never will be one. Maybe romance is the lust. Maybe romance is the comfort. I don’t know what romance is. Maybe I am romantic in my “do me from behind and tell me you love fucking me” style. I don’t know.
Nor do I know who God is or where he lives, what he eats, or what late night talk show he prefers. Maybe God is inside of us. (More puns.) Maybe God is floating around and doing renovations to Heaven.
Maybe Hell is real. (Whoops.) Maybe all of the people under the steeple know what is going on. Maybe they are just there for the potluck.
And with that said, my wobbly steering friend and I came to the conclusion that I am an “Atheist of Romance.” Each end of the spectrum seems absurd. Everything in the middle seems so unscientific and just made up to sell cards and subconsciously steer us into walking down the All American Way of Life.
Maybe I am the leader of a small pack of women who get in and get out – no feelings, no misconceptions; but maybe I am the most romantic woman this side of Manhattan. One may never know…
Watch out, Cinderella, Cimmone is in town and she’s crushing your glass slipper with her vibrator.