Friday, July 20, 2007

By Any Other Name?

Dogging, Piking and Polyamory. Cottaging, Voyeurnaturals and Exhicentrics. Spongeophiles, Cakeshifters and Multifreudianwankers – okay, I made the last three up. Or did I? The latest wheel-reinvention craze involves giving the same old sexual shenanigans a refurb: yer shagging habits have been rebranded.

Take Polyamory, the ‘new’ kid on the all-night party block. What was once called wife swapping or swinging (oh, how adorably retro!) has experienced a makeover: a pinch of academic approval, a topspin of self-help book rhetoric (“we define ourselves as free thinking independent people, freed from the emotional bondage of guilt and restriction”, blah blah), and a whole new language ('frubbly': the 'emotion of joy' experienced seeing partners happy in the company of other lovers) means that you too can shag likeminded, emotionally insecure, egocentric commitment-phobics, secure in the knowledge that your behaviour is fully sanctioned with a blessing from the glossy magazines. Meanwhile, Dogging is another age-old pastime with the eyebags removed: it’s the bad old gang bang scenario with website and mobile phone technology assistance saving the shifty-trousered brigade from wasting long hours in quiet car parks peering hopefully at genuine pooches being taken out for a midnight pee by their innocent owners. Not that I'm calling Doggers guilty, and nor do I want to stop any pleasure seekers in their multi-partnered tracks. And I’m not averse to reading about any of the well-worn practises that keep on dominating the headlines, either; I'm as fascinated as the next perv when given the opportunity to get down and dirty with
those-who-can’t-keep-it-in-their-pants – at a safe, respectable distance, of course. And anyway, who am I to judge the next (hard) man? As long as nobody is getting hurt in the process, I don’t mind what anybody does in order to float their amorous boats. I just can’t help wondering why a rose (or in this case, a few sticky thorns) needs to be given yet another name in order to smell as … well, not exactly sweet, but you know what I mean. I still find it hard to believe, though, that a semi-dressed woman on a picnic table, open (literally) for business with all-comers, or the real life goings on behind the ‘ethical slut’ principles of the academics, have genuinely happy tales to tell once the baby oil dries up – surely the ensuing horror stories will be a case of yet more old whine in new barrels? Anyway …

Sex is A Good Thing. It can be loving, messy, fun, exhilarating, spontaneous, sad, sleazy and regretful in equal measure, at different times and in different phases of the average life. A woman can be Samantha from Sex and the City, Kat from EastEnders or Bree from Desperate Housewives as she sees fit; equally, a man can be Casanova, Mr Big or merely Mr Right Now in accordance with his own whims, too – it’s all part of life’s rich tapestry, as long as the consenting adults rule always applies … and as long as we behave like the adults we purport to be. We’re all familiar with the old wanting cake, oxymoronic adage - so, when one half of a couple confesses to a Polyamory predilection, they’re asking to be absolved for the forthcoming sin of gross misbehaviour. What the rejectee experiences in the aftermath isn’t a cutely-termed ‘wibble’ – it’s a justified bout of insecurity, hurt and jealousy. If someone gets sweet talked (or quasi-science blinded) into believing anything else, they’re not ‘open minded and mature’ – they’re flirting with setting themselves up to be the victim of a confusing and possibly abusive relationship that probably ain’t going anywhere except down.

Okay, I haven’t Polyamored, Dogged, Piked, Cottaged or been moved to Exhicentricism (although I freely admit to a good bit of Cakeshifting in my time). I happily absorb all the info, though – if that makes me a Vicariousist, so be it; we’re all free to take our fulfilment where we find it … and call it what the hell we like.

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