by Harvey Lillywhite
The sheer number of times over more than 30 years is a little staggering. “Do the math,” he said, draining any hint of romance from the whole affair. Fifty-two weeks in a year times thirty-two years. One thousand six-hundred and sixty-four weeks. And how many times a week? There was certainly a lot at the start, but not so much here at the end. So maybe, to keep it simple, say once a week? That’s 1,664 times with the same person. But what if it were the national average—twice a week (is that an urban legend?)?
That’s over 3,000 times—with the same person. That’s fidelity all right. But what else could it be? Exercise? An obligation? A simple release? Or something more? A true attachment, a hopeful junction, a comfortable yoke, a breakable bond, a consuming conjugation? Souls connecting? Love?
But if love-making is actually making love, how many times does it take before love is made? Surely less than a thousand? So what about the other 664 times when love was already made? It was renewed? Reinvigorated? Revitalized? Maybe? Is love so weak that once it’s made it must be constantly resuscitated, reconfigured? Is love a permeable bowl that must be filled again and again and again, over and over, forever? Or, once made, does it last forever?
Sex, in our culture, is a commodity. It is a sport, a competitive performance, fraught with ratings and worry. Did it measure up? Was it good for you? Am I big enough? Am I adequate? Such concern and anxiety are miles from any country of love that I know of. But loving, affectionate sex is boring at best in our culture, and, worse yet, sentimental, right? It must always be new and fresh; there must be sky rockets in flight, fireworks. Did the earth move for you? In our culture, sex is a drug. Wanna get high on oxytocin and dopamine? Wow, what a rush!
The biology of it [according to Martin Portner, a neurologist living in Brazil, author of Inteligencia Sexual (Sexual Intelligence, Editora Gente, 1999). He lectures and leads workshops on the brain and creativity.] is not that surprising. “Achieving orgasm, brain imaging studies show, involves more than heightened arousal. It requires a release of inhibitions engineered by shutdown of the brain’s center of vigilance in both sexes and a widespread neural power failure in females. During ejaculation, researchers saw extraordinary activation of the ventral tegmental area (VTA), a major hub of the brain’s reward circuitry; the intensity of this response is comparable to that induced by heroin.
“But when a woman reached orgasm, something unexpected happened: much of her brain went silent. Some of the most muted neurons sat in the left lateral orbitofrontal cortex, which may govern self-control over basic desires such as sex. Decreased activity there, the researchers suggest, might correspond to a release of tension and inhibition. The scientists also saw a dip in excitation in the dorsomedial prefrontal cortex, which has an apparent role in moral reasoning and social judgment—a change that may be tied to a suspension of judgment and reflection.
“Among the activated limbic regions were the amygdala and the hypothalamus, which produces oxytocin, the putative love and bonding hormone whose levels jump fourfold at orgasm. The researchers also found heightened activity in the nucleus accumbens, a critical part of the brain’s reward circuitry that may mediate orgasmic pleasure in women. In addition, they saw unusual activity in the anterior cingulate cortex and the insula, two brain areas that Rutgers anthropologist Helen Fisher has found come to life during the later stages of love relationships. Such activity may connect a female’s sexual pleasure with the emotional bond she feels with her partner.
“Continued scientific dissection of the experience of orgasm may lead to new pharmaceutical and psychological avenues for enhancing the experience. Yet overanalyzing this moment of intense pleasure might also put a damper on the fun.”
You think so???
In our culture, sex sells. Let’s objectify and commodify everything, which, it seems to me, is the very definition of pornography. Is the USA not the most pornographic nation in the world? It’s a means of control. And let’s remove all responsibility while we’re at it. Whatever turns you on, man. Whatever floats your boat.
Call me old fashioned, but isn’t this meaningless? I suppose a good meaningless, athletic fuck is okay between two willing adults. In fact, I’m way out of my league in even talking about this. I had only a few lovers before I was married, but I was not promiscuous, no matter how hard I tried as a kid. I seemed to be the boy girls didn’t want to be with in that sportive way—because they knew I would take it too seriously? That I would just get hurt? Who needs the emotional mess? It was usually, “I like/love you as a friend.” Such sexual rejection at an early age left me very unsure of myself. And maybe it was just my looks. I admit it, I’m no Adonis.
But now, over a thousand times with the same woman. For me, it’s still momentous and extraordinary. Magical, I would say. I know it sounds dumb. But how lucky I am to be there next to this woman. To look in her eyes, to touch her hair, and smooth her cheek. To be kissed. To hold and be held. To take it slow. To run a finger over her shoulder, to nestle and cuddle, nuzzle and caress. And then to move on. To be in a place so sensual and alive.
What is the metaphor . . . making sweet music together? It’s jazz. It’s where the name jazz came from. Variations on a theme. Counterpoint, rhythm. High notes and low. The soft moans of arousal, the heartening cum cry. Excuse me, but it’s deep and important, and far beyond merely a reproductive urge. It is what I know of the spirit. It is the life within life.
But let’s be honest. Over the years, we’ve both had headaches. Sometimes we’d have made Love’s Olympic Team, but many times we were Love’s pack mules. We’ve both asked, “Done already?” We’ve had our quickies. And we both have our shortcomings, neither of us being spectacularly endowed. But still, over a thousand times? What comes of such a thing?
Most tangibly a couple of great kids. But it’s been like touching base with each other throughout the years.
Whatever whirlwind sweeps us up, whatever new thing there is to work through, it’s been there, a constant, a home base. In the midst of the hectic swim through each week, we can stop and verify that we’re both still there . . . and alive.
So, as an offering to sex, I give my poem, a little kiss.
Love Letter
To lie in a lady’s lap
To leap to a lady’s lips
To linger near a lady’s lingerie
To lodge in a lady’s latches
To labor in a lady’s limits
To long near a lady’s laugh
To lounge in a lady’s latitudes
To luff in a lady’s lacuna
To loaf in a lady’s luck
To lust in a lady’s laboratory
To listen for a lady’s language
To learn through a lady’s landscape
To lapse in a lady’s loneliness
To loll in a lady’s linens
To lather for a lady’s larks
To look through a lady’s letters
To lift up a lady’s ladder
To live in a lady’s layers
To laugh in a lady’s labyrinth
To loosen in a lady’s luster
To lament in a lady’s lair
To lean on a lady’s lyrics
To lag on a lady’s lapel
To last on a lady’s ledge
To light up a lady’s lineaments
To land in a lady’s light
To love in a lady’s love