The High Ambition of Little Option

This image has nothing to do with Will O'Neill's article. We're just surprised that Scarlett Johansson agreed to such a creepy marketing scheme. But then again, it's a Woody Allen film, so how surprised can you be?

When you wisely spend 14 hours a day on the Internet, you realize that the sheer number of sexual proclivities out there are neither small nor fixed; they grow and blossom with each new invention. They take the form of all traumas and memories—all dissatisfactions, really—so long as the forces they swirl around are manifest in some way, real or imaginable.

But, with that part of this hamburger essay out of the way, I’d have to say that my big sexual fetish, my enormous forbidden love (and I am dripping), is to have sex with. . . someone.

I’ve probably been into the idea of sex with Somebody since as far back as I’ve revised my own personal history (since my real one sucks and I don’t really remember it). Yeah, my very first sexual fantasies involved myself and another person, and I’ve never looked back.

Here’s how it basically breaks down: I have no clothes on, and an erection. But wait! That’s not all. There’s somebody else there. I’m getting hot just writing about it. After they are there, I take my thing and I associate it with them. They don’t leave! They stay. Just like I always imagined. There are a lot of variables, but the important thing is that a) there is Somebody, and b) that they are involved. Their needs demand consideration. No video games.

So, now you’re thinking: what is it about Somebody that gets you so randy? Tough to say. Some people say you’re born this way, some people say you get into it because other people around you are doing it, or doing it on the Internet. But for me, I think it’s probably the fact that if I spend one more night alone, I’m going to kill myself.

Sometimes, mixed messages can be a problem when you’re trying to fulfill these kinds of taboo pleasures. One time, I was courting a promising Someone, and s/he said “Just because you bought me dinner doesn’t mean you get to have sex with me, you know.”

I responded, “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about! I wanted to have sex with you without buying you dinner! I never wanted dinner to have anything to do with it!” But this argument does not end on amorous terms. So, as you can see, the strange animal inside of me has often put me at odds with the dynamics of reality.

Who or what will liberate me from this hopeless state? I’ve tried to tell myself that this abnormality is mine and mine alone, so that I might banish it more readily, but I can’t help but notice that my parents are two people. Everywhere I go, in fact, people show all sorts of signs of having had sex with someone else: pregnancy, for example.

Probably the worst part of having a dirty fetish like this is looking yourself in the mirror and knowing that your heart can’t match your reflection. Like a transsexual man who longs to have his salmon vortex pounded into permanent donut, but stares at the glass seeing only the hangdog drop of his mouth-faced wang and those marble-stuffed Christmas sacks of shame, so it is with me as I gaze into the abyss of my overweight, light-switch-toggling frame, my gut-fuckable rolls, and my fire-ant infested complexion in broken recognition. “Nobody will have sex with me,” I say, “while, all along, my secret fantasy is to have sex with Somebody.”

Then, giving in to old demons instead of caged angels, I commit the ultimate betrayal, the act of greatest contrast to my nature: I have sex with myself.

And where, dear reader, can my anguish rest but with you? All of my life, I’ve had to hide this filthy secret whenever I encounter anybody who is Somebody, for fear that revealing my true self to them may drive them away in anger and disgust. One time, for example, I was with Somebody who said, “I am so glad that we are friends and that you don’t want to have sex with me.” In that situation, to have been honest with my true self, I should have said, “I am not your friend, and I do want to have sex with you.” But I cannot, for I know what will happen if I am discovered by anyone as wanting to have sex with them.

Ignominy.

Truth.

Disconnection.

I’ve amassed a great deal of jealousy and anger for those who don’t have to pretend, who have come out of the closet and said, “Yes, that is me. I want to have sex with Someone, and this is a goal within my sphere of influence.”

Sometimes I see these people, people who look as if they will shortly be having sex with Someone, Someone who is not me, and I’d like to walk up and kick them in the face and ask them how it feels. After they report that it does not feel good, I will at that point inform them that this is how it feels to be me, to want to have sex with Someone and not be able to. To have to keep it all inside.

Don’t you think I wish Someone would want a picture of me swinging around a poster bedpost? Or biting something made out of a material, in a manner that is suggestive? And that I would then have sex with that Someone? Don’t you know I read your sex columns about what people should do the next time some zippity-doo-dah comes strolling up to them in the discotheque and hands over in ample amounts a sexual license to themselves? That which is, to me, a drop of water in a generic desert where water is scarce?

Dammit, all I really want is Somebody to fuck.