Sex Is Art

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Blogger, A Sexy Woman of A Certain Age
A few weeks ago I sat in a poolside cabana at The Avalon, a mid-century jewel of a hotel in Beverly Hills, eating dinner with a man who told me: “To you, sex is art.” I was both flattered and amused. Amused because we hadn’t even slept together — he was referring to my blog.
I’ve thought a lot about his remark: what makes sex simply a physical act, and what makes it transcendent? Bad sex, or mediocre sex, is the former. It’s a mechanical exercise involving body parts, forgotten as soon as it’s over. At best, it’s disconnected, a tepid cliche. At worst, it’s ugly and damaging.
You know where it’s headed, but you don’t know how it will get there. It takes shape as lovers read each other’s body language, calibrating tongues, lips, touch, and movement. What might make you cringe during bad sex — panting, a musky odor, the sound of an enthusiastic tongue — might make you shudder with awe during great sex.
Great sex makes you experience the ordinary in an extraordinary way.

Last year I dated a start-up muckety-muck who, at first glance, was not my type. Silver-haired, slightly heavy, and rather imperious, he was a gifted writer and raconteur. His mastery of language, both elegant and smutty, brought me to my knees every time I saw him — figuratively and literally. The chemistry between us was combustible, and we subjected more waiters and bartenders than I can count to our sex-begins-over-dinner foreplay. Although we had little in common, we were bizarrely compatible sex partners.
In great sex, partners test each other’s limits, traversing new erotic terrain together.

Victor had been on the periphery of my social circle when I was married, and was my first lover when my marriage ended. He was sex personified. His body was art: with his exquisitely articulated muscles and perpetually cocked hips, he reminded me of Michaelangelo’s David. My relationship with him marked the end of a lifetime of (mostly) Sex Lite, and sent my erotic narrative careening in another direction. It was like losing my virginity all over again.
Our interludes were so expansive, so exhilarating, that there were a few times I was amazed I survived — a frenzied, mid-afternoon coupling on a tennis court comes to mind. With the first smack of his palm on my ass, he beckoned the kink that was hidden inside me. Our relationship echoed the scene in 9 1/2 Weeks when Kim Basinger asks Mickey Rourke how he knew she would respond to him the way she did. He replies: “I saw myself in you.”
That’s one of the gifts of great sex. To lose yourself, and find yourself, in another person.
Bad sex is static and clumsy. It’s two sets of left feet on the dance floor. Great sex is dynamic, an artful tango.
This summer, I dated a younger man named Cary. He was appealing because he was so comfortable in his skin, fueled by a genuine curiosity and zest for life. He studied contact improv, a modern dance form that hinges on being fully present in the moment in order to read and follow a partner’s cues. If this sounds like a recipe for great sex, it is. And it was.
Our relationship began with texts and emails in which we co-wrote sexual scenes we played out when we met. These collaborative exchanges happened organically, and it was exciting to discover that our erotic and playful sensibilities jived. I was invariably “in trouble” because I had not arrived for our trysts in the promised outfits, and I was “punished” with whatever accoutrements he had threatened me with in our electronic back-and-forths.
Cary brought his contact improv training to the bedroom. His uncanny ability to immerse himself in the present and be exquisitely attuned drew me into the moment with him. His desire to give me what I wanted, and get what he wanted, created a heightened sexual intimacy. Our relationship was brief, and would never have gone further than the bedroom, but its erotic creativity made it one of my favorite liaisons.
With all the things great sex and art have in common, they diverge in one significant way. Ballet, Broadway, art auctions, the symphony — these venues exclude the less privileged. Not everyone can afford the price of a theater ticket, or even admission to a museum.
Great sex, however, doesn’t discriminate. It never has, and it never will.
Oysters have a well-established history as an aphrodisiac (just look at that suggestive shape!): Romans believed in their libido-increasing abilities and Casanova wrote that he ate 50 for breakfast in “The Story of My Life.” Well guess what? The mollusks are packed with the feel-good hormone dopamine. Zinc — a mineral linked to stimulating testosterone, a hormone key to sexual arousal, can also be found in oysters, according to WebMD. A past study also suggested a link between raw oyster consumption and sex-hormone production, after researchers discovered that they contain rare amino acids previously found to stimulate testosterone and progesterone production in rats, The Telegraph reports.
Flickr: pointnshoot
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Throughout the next few months, HuffPost Teen is highlighting the way teens think and feel about sex through anecdotes written for our series, “Teen Sex: It’s Complicated.” All of the authors are teenagers who have agreed to be published anonymously. If you want to share your thoughts, join the conversation here.
I am a 16-year-old California native. To me, sex is a way of self-expression. It’s an art form. It’s the oldest, most carnal way of letting out your emotions. And that’s what America fails to understand.
The American attitude towards sex is disfigured because we fail to look at sex objectively, to take it purely at face value. Our problem is that we always have to classify sex along with something else: gay sex, interracial sex, sex for trade, etc. We pass judgements because of these pointless classifications. She’s having sex with a rich man? She must want his money. She’s having sex with an older man? She must have daddy issues. He’s having sex with a girl who’s much younger than him? He must be really desperate.
But when you strip away the other lenses, sex by itself is a beautiful thing. It’s empowering. Poetic. Life-changing. An adventure. Pure nirvana.
However, it’s nearly impossible to look at sex objectively because of the sex education in America. Abstinence only education fails for one reason: You tell teenagers explicitly not to do something, chances are most of them will do the opposite. And this is no bullshit — America has the highest teen pregnancy rate in the developed world because of our subpar sex education. Look it up if you don’t believe me.
I’m tired of sex being such a taboo subject in America. It’s time for us to start educating the youth on something so essential to life. Instead of screaming, “ABSTINENCE” and then shutting the door on the conversation, we need to plan for everything. Give out condoms. Make birth control more available. Be open and honest with your children about sex.
Sex is supposed to be fun. It relieves stress, keeps your heart healthy, and helps you sleep at night. I hope with ardent fervor that the next generation grows up sexually open-minded, passing no judgements based on sex or sexual partners (quantity or quality), that they grow up without double standards, and that they outgrow rape culture.
The most important thing to remember about sex is who it’s about: you and your partner. It doesn’t matter what the naysayers think. Your comfort and safety are always number one, and no means f****** no.
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