We’re most embarrassed about that which almost all of us
most want to do: we’re most secretive about our sex lives. If you could force
the bureaucrats in control of state secrets—those in charge of the contents of
the lower levels of Area 51, the Top Secret vaults of CIA headquarters, the volumes
of the Vatican Secret Archive—to expose to the world either those earth-shaking
revelations or videos of their squalid private sex acts, they would be torn, at
the least, and may well prefer to topple governments by releasing the state
secrets. This fear of being caught in the naughty act may have evolved from
animals’ preference to find a secluded spot to swap genes, to protect
themselves from predators when they’re vulnerable. Of course, animals are much more
open about having sex than are people, as farmers and zookeepers and
birdwatchers can attest. Animals have little capacity for shame and those that
can feel embarrassment have no special fear of being observed in flagrante delicto—unless their
coupling upsets their dominance hierarchy and the pair is afraid of the alpha’s
wrath. Those billions of us who live in private residences need no longer fear
being mauled while sexually occupied; home invaders would be more interested in
robbing us, and even when we’re naked and engrossed, we can easily arm
ourselves by making use of our many technological extensions (a bat, an alarm
clock, a shoe, etc). And the exposure of a sex tape poses no direct physical
threat to the couple.
So the terror of releasing the details of our sex lives to
the public is peculiarly human. With the exceptions of exhibitionists and porn
stars, we prefer to keep private that which we most prize or long for, and we have no compelling practical reason
for doing so. When a celebrity sex tape is stolen and the thief threatens to
publish it on the internet, the agonized celebrity can spend millions in court
to prevent the undermining of his or her public image. But why, in the first
place, would that image be ruined by the leaking of a sex tape? Once again, if
it’s a question of the participants’ identity, as in the case of adultery, the
fear would be practical: the hypocrite, for example, may have cultivated an
image of righteousness or of heterosexuality, and so wouldn’t want evidence to the
contrary to become widely available. But there’s also a more general, underlying ambivalence
about the sex act itself. We all cultivate a public image, an ideal version of
ourselves: we prefer to be thought of as people
with human rights, whereas sex would have us be animals.
We prefer to think of ourselves as dignified moral agents, destined for
immortality, whereas our sexual lust indicates we’re cosmically insignificant
and headed towards extinction like any other phase of natural
concatenations. That’s the existential dread of sex which only self-proclaimed people
can suffer.
Compare that dread to the surprisingly-rational fear of
choking on our vomit in response to our eating the flesh of dead animals. That ignominious fate we avoid by
keeping ourselves in the dark about the gruesome treatment of livestock. The
very word “livestock” is Orwellian in its smoothing over of the holocaust of
objectification that occurs in all pens and cages torturing pigs, chickens, and
the like. “Stock” is a supply of goods, meaning things owned, and “live”
indicates something that isn’t just a thing or an object. The contradiction is
palpable. Were we to tour a slaughterhouse and then be offered a free meal of
steak or back ribs, I expect most of us would be overcome with nausea and would
have to decline the cooked remains. Our ignorance is by design so that we can
enjoy eating meat. Although the pleasures of sex far exceed gustatory ones,
except perhaps for gluttons, that’s also by biological design, to distract all
sexual creatures from the implications of sex’s physicality: our dignity is
naturally a sham and is belied by our loving sex more than our purported gods.
Moreover, asexual critics needn’t be lined up to spread this unpopular word. The hiddenness of our sex acts, which even
the law typically makes mandatory, demonstrates that we already know that
we’re wronged by our sex instinct, that by lusting after bodies, by yearning to
fondle breasts, balls, or buttocks, to taste each other’s juices and to be
penetrated or stroked in ways that would constitute the severest breaches of
decency in public life, we are made into objects of ridicule, reduced to clowns
by natural forces so that we exacerbate the absurdity that belongs to the physical aspect of all things.
Is there, however, a way to be sexual without forfeiting our
intellectual integrity, let alone our existential authenticity? After all, the
aesthetic burden of sex is that it’s utterly commonplace. Sexual reproduction
is biologically creative, of course, but artistically unoriginal since we’re
passive in our role as baby-makers; the hormones do all the work as our puppeteers.
But we are exorbitantly creative in
our adapting of the sex instinct to myriad purposes that supersede the
reproductive function. We’ve even invented birth control mechanisms seemingly
to usurp nature’s power over us. Haven’t we, then, made sex dignified by making
it non-animalistic, by incorporating it into our more elevated pursuits? Let’s
explore the possibilities of existentially viable forms of sexuality.


















