The Transactionals

“Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll give you dick later this week.”

Man…I did not want to hear that. For like ten million reasons. First of all, I rue the transactional nature of that statement. It’s as if to say my good behavior or generosity or patience are what merit me five to ten minutes of sex. Like sex is something I have to earn. Because otherwise, sex on its own is…what? Not fun? Has no inherent redeeming qualities? Why is sex a reward that is dangled in front of me like a carrot? Plenty of people are willing to give carrots away for free. In fact, plenty of people would pay me to take the carrot. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I ain’t no Dick Chasey. I can really just roll over and go to bed myself if that’s the current attitude towards sex. I’m not really feeling it.

Secondly, like, damn. I was really hoping that the commodification of the body was something that could be avoided here, but I guess not. I guess it’s ironic because traditionally it’s the other way around – usually I’m the one bartering my body for better treatment, more stuff, time and attention. Which is probably why the irony isn’t lost on me here. In fact, I’d go so far as to say: does this person even want to have sex with me, period? Or am I only fuckable after I check a couple boxes and do a few favors? Am I not, on my own, fuckable? Oh, Jesus, this is not good for my self esteem. Again, it’s probably better for me to find someone that is going to trip all over themselves in order to fuck me than to loiter around hoping for sex from someone who doesn’t seem eager to give it.

And, thirdly, damn things have changed. We’ve changed, this relationship has changed, our libidos have changed. I am (apparently) “not fun” anymore, which honestly doesn’t really bother me in terms of critical feedback because I’m not some god damn rodeo clown, I’m a woman trying to make a life for herself and all the people who care to join me on this ride. The petty games of withholding sex don’t really intrigue me these days – that shit is fucking joyless. I wanna fuck cuz I wanna fuck cuz I wanna fuck – there’s no need to dress it up in quid pro quo or make it a chore. Or make me feel like I’m the chore. It’s supposed to be fun, and if it’s not fun, then let’s not do it. There’s nothing quite like the threat of perfunctory fucking to make me feel like: no, thank you, now or ever.

Which isn’t to say that I’m unwilling to accommodate other people’s libidos or sexual needs. I like to fuck a lot – but I realize that sometimes I’m the only one. It’s not going to break me to scale it back. Yes, ideally I’d like to fuck every day, but if we only fuck once a week, that’s fine, too. In fact, there’s no obligation for us to have sex whatsoever! If the last time we had sex was the last time you actually wanted to fuck me, I can deal with that. I won’t complain. I’m not into coercing sex out of people who don’t want to give it. Willing participants only.

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