If You Keep That Up You’ll Go Blind

As a firm believer in the adage that what two or more consenting adults get up to is probably not only good for them, but none of my beeswax to boot, I’d like to rant about sexuality for a bit. It’ll be fun, and I’ll probably talk about breasts at some point.

Robert Anton Wilson, that delightful paranoid maniac, wrote a brief text in which he enumerated the ways in which we are sexually repressed and why we are kept that way. One can only assume that our tendency for self-suppression is somehow indicative of some kind of higher self and its need for conformity.

Or is it? Could it be that some of us crave the presence of sex laws, the better to transgress against them? I don’t know, and I can’t say that it was ever a very relevant question for me. Some of us are just not very complicated, sexually speaking.

When we speak about sexual freedom, people usually assume we mean homosexuality and how homosexuals should be accorded the same rights as heterosexuals. Which they should. I have tried to follow arguments written by proponents of Natural Law, the better to understand the opposition, but it all looks to me like using a jackhammer to fit a square peg in a round hole, somewhere there wasn’t a hole in the first place.

Homosexuality isn’t unnatural. Telling other people what they can and can’t do with other consenting adults is unnatural, so you can stop your inner monologue right now.


A more interesting aspect of sexual liberty is the plethora of fetishes and kinks out there. They’re all considered perverts for deviating from the heterosexual norm. Like the BDSM crowd of “Fifty Shades of Grey” fame. From what I am given to understand, the societies in which these sexual practices are common hold the books in contempt, much like the heterosexual male with an IQ score above room temperature would hold reality TV in contempt.

If we want to understand BDSM – and we should: what if you go through life denying yourself out of fear? – we need to look at those deeply-rooted feelings we keep to ourselves out of fear that people will think us crazy.

You go for a run, and get a “runner’s high”; an endorphin rush that is almost sexual in nature and force. A long-planned scheme or business venture comes to fruition, and the exhiliration gives you a powerful, orgasmic release. You have built a structure according to strict requirements, and gaze upon it in the sweet, post-rapturous buzz that is the domain of the builder.

If you understand any of these feelings, you can understand the BDSM practitioner. They revel in that area of human experience where pain and pleasure are mixed in a synergistic harmony that would be an absolute impossibility without trust. Shakespeare’s so-called ‘Trouble Plays’ did the same, mixing comedy and tragedy in such a way that the comedy was more hilarious and the tragedy more profound, and yet you could always remain assured the narrator would hold your hand throughout the entire ordeal of the play.

The BDSM crowd share in the mystery of placing their trust in each other in such a way that one is subservient to another, and the other in turn is subservient to the former’s needs. Control, and relinquishing it to revel in the maelstrom of emotions of pleasure mixed with pain and humiliation, is the key.

Yesteryear we called homosexuals freaks and perverts, deviants from beyond the pale. In short order, they will be given equal standing with heterosexuals, and in a couple of generations we will read about it in the history books. Then it will be the turn of the other freaks and deviants, like the BDSM crowd.

We could save ourselves a lot of trouble right now if we only realised that we are all sexual creatures and what consenting adults get up to with each other is fine. But at a pinch, I suppose this mad struggle to deny each other and ourselves sexual freedom will be good for print media for still another while.

You are, after all, still waiting for me to mention boobs. Lovely, smoothly curved boobs that quiver to the touch and with titillatingly responsive nipples and aureoles. Those boobs? Feel guilty about recalling them? Then you’re unfree.

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