Sex
The numbers
We are wise enough to believe in our unstoppable horniness.
Consider the numbers. They are not stable yet, not fixed, and maybe they never will be. Years from now, on the northern edges of Central Park, there may be a famous vagrant. People will tell the story that he was an orphan, just arrived in New York, deafened by the great explosion and damaged in other ways. He staggered out of the place, but was never “known” again. And maybe, in the same moment, someone else whose life was desperate used the great collapse to vanish. To find a new life. And was counted as dead. So maybe well never quite know the full count. But lets say it was 6,600.
Which is not so very many.
Now, please, bear with me. This column took a few weeks off to think. We can all do with that.
Some of the 6,600 now exist as no more than hypothetical smears of DNA — not really tissue so much as tracers — in the debris. This is a very modern kind of funerary art. And maybe — I dont know this, it is beyond me — but maybe some fine science can find a smear and say: That woman was pregnant. But suppose she hadn’t had it confirmed yet on that Tuesday morning. She was to see the doctor that afternoon. Just as, among 6,600 it is likely that there were a few who had less welcome appointments in the next few days. So they never heard the news they dreaded.
It reminds me of a day from a history ago, a sunny winter’s day in Sussex, England, when a beautiful young woman — we were just married — whispered to me that I was sliding down her thighs. We confirmed this not long afterward. We had been making love. She was full and when she stood up afterward some of the semen slipped down her legs. There was, by the time we looked, a crystalline tide mark on her skin that flaked away to the touch. Of course, it was visible — it probably weighed something on a fine scale. But it was also just a dry tracer of life.
Not everything slipped out. We had a son nine months later, and he is 35 today. He teaches history at a university in England, and he is such a tender fanatic for knowledge that he could probably tell me, more or less, how many “lives,” or possibilities, there are in any ejaculation. Somewhere I seem to remember millions - but maybe I’m overestimating. Men do in such matters.
What has one thing to do with the other? Simply the scale of human potential. There have always been immense disasters: 19,000 men, I think, were killed on the first day of the Battle of the Somme in July 1916. In my lifetime there have been earthquakes in the Middle East where 50,000 died. And I have heard that in Iraq in recent years a few thousand people a week die because of the consequences of the war there and the sanctions. And I do not raise that matter for any political point. We have just given up a century of immense deaths. We all know the figure — the 6 million Jews, the greatest memorial in the shared number. But the Soviet citizens who died at Soviet hands and as part of a Soviet plan — surely higher. Just not as well known.
And all those terrible totals are dwarfed by the multitudes we hold in ourselves — and regularly let out for exercise, for happiness and spurred by some instinct for the future. Immense numbers, legendary hypothetical populations all pumping on a horniness that is the root of the urge to persist, even if we only move from primeval scum to the intellectual froth in petri dishes, given time enough. No, I don’t wish to consider the “slaughter” of those aborted. And I will pass over the unimaginable losses in the merciful acts of masturbation.
So think of those numbers. They do not alter the loss of any one person. Nothing does. Every loss has to be spread out in slow healing. But we are a species set in time and history and we are wise enough to know and trust the larger numbers and to believe in our unstoppable horniness.
Where does it come from? You can say it’s in nature, in our organism, in that muddy imperative to endure. Or you can say that there is creation involved, a blind, dumb religious urge — like the deaf, blasted mind that walked away (they say) and still lives in the park like an animal. But an animal that mutters poetry in a forgotten tongue.
David Thomson is the author of "A Biographical Dictionary of Film" (new edition just published), "Rosebud: The Story of Orson Welles" and "In Nevada." More David Thomson.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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