Sex is weird. Sex, we like to think, is this grand intimate experience of skin upon skin, naked mucous membranes pressing rhythmically together in the joint pursuit of metaphysical pleasure. If it’s not that, it’s this atavistic primal dance, this gutter utterance of primordial urges so ancient they’ve yet to be named. Or it’s the perverse play of sybarites, sating sophisticate appetites through the calculated release of…whatever.
Sex, we like to think, follows a clear narrative. Sex is a story we like to tell — to ourselves in the cadenced solitary squelching of a Wednesday night, to friends in anecdotes, in the guidance we give to our kids, should we have any. We like to imagine sex holds inherent dramatic structure. To our cinematic thinking, sex has a recognizable beginning, middle, and an end — usually climactic, often celebratory but sometimes unsatisfying. Even Aristotle would recognize the dramatic arc of your average everyday pornos.