Sex...Skins...Knocking boots...The horizontal mambo.
Regardless of what you call it - the vast majority of us "grown-ups" - and I use the term loosely - are having it. SEX.
Being that I have children, you've probably arrived at the conclusion that the Stork didn't drop them off on our porch in a wicker basket with blue bows. Good. We're on the same page.
Now that we've established that I am not a nun, I will confess that what I'm about to delve into may make me sound like a prude. I'm alright with that. The only person who's valuation of my sexiness or degree of "prudish-ness" (I'm now making up words, follow along,) I truly care about married me just as I am.
So it is with all cognitive understanding of how it may sound, that I make the following statement: My generation is oversexed.
I see more sex that I'm not partaking in in a 24 hour period than should be allowable by law. It's in commercials, magazines, prime time television - even my beloved Disney affiliate, ABC, is partaking in alluded to oral at the 8:00 p.m. time slot.
Twitter personally announced to me today via email, with nude thumbnails, that Kanye tweeted his wife - she who must not be named - naked again for the great honor of reaching 30 million twitter followers. As if it were a nobel prize. Mmkay.
Then there's the endless twerking, eggplant Friday (ew!), MCMs, WCWs, half naked Instagram models and the like that I stumble upon on social media.
I find myself clutching my proverbial (and imaginary) pearls more and more often. And maybe it wouldn't bother me if I weren't a mommy...
Maybe if I weren't a Christian...
Or married and monogamous for a near decade now...
Maybe if I didn't have a straight lace nine to five.
But I do, and I just don't get it.
I still remember the first time I saw a dirty magazine. A bunch of kids at school were looking at it. I, being the socially awkward mess that I was, went home and told my mother about it. The naivety! *Insert facepalm here.* But I do remember vividly that my mother, tough as nails and no nonsense as she was, didn't scold me. She didn't chastise me. Instead, she told me that what was in those books, and in dirty movies, and all the filth the world had to offer, was not a representation of love. She said that if someone loves you, they would never exploit you like that. And that has stuck with me, ALWAYS.
I also had a very honest father. He would take me out on Saturdays when I was a teenager. He would comment on women we'd see; I won't repeat the things he'd say, but I got the message very clear, that everything being on display is not a good thing. My father taught me about leaving something to the imagination. About finding common ground with someone. And that love doesn't involve vapid narcissism or shallow outer shells that are pleasing to the eyes.
The issue is, both of these lessons have to do with love - and my generation, knows nothing about love. OUCH. Truth hurts.
The reality is that we live in the in between. Too afraid of being hurt to be vulnerable, too selfish to be loyal, too concerned about our neighbors grass to settle down and mind our own. You can literally download an app and be physically gratified on command.
We are proprietors of situationships - confused intertwining abounding. Everyone is too concerned with getting theirs to consider the longterm effects of a heart unchained. But is it worth it?
I'm of the belief that, for women at least, a piece of your heart goes along with every man you lay with. I find myself asking, how many pieces can that heart break into? What are the lasting repercussions of the promiscuity my generation is so accustomed to? I've been told that because I stayed with and married my high school sweetheart, I don't have a dog in this fight. To the contrary, I say that makes me even more astute and objective. I haven't been shown one advantage yet to playing this game of Russian Roulette.
Everything that you go through with not one, not two, but man after man, I did with one man, inevitably making him my husband. In the end, I am scarred, but you are more scarred, because the more meaningless, seamless, messy unattached encounters you have, the more you lose faith. The more jaded you become. It's a vicious cycle at best.
I feel strongly that if more women upheld a standard about who they sleep with, more men would be men, the old fashioned way. If you keep your clothes on, a man is more likely - in my experience - to be a man, the way men used to be. You know the old adage, "why buy a cow?" Well my dears, all the milk is free now.
And while I am all for a woman getting her biscuit buttered (work with my analogies, I'm not vulgar here) I believe in an old school thing called discretion. I couldn't tell you who some of my closest friends are sleeping with, and I respect that tremendously. I'm not the sex police, and the last thing I can do is tell anyone what's right for them. However, unless you like scarlet letters or three letter labels that start with H and rhyme with flow, I can assure you no good can come of you falling in love with a different man even every year, or more frequently. Keep a good thing to yourself until it's a great thing. A sure thing.
I'm not a saint by any measure. Even less of a prude. Nothing nearly resembling a nun. But I started this blog to dish honesty. Sometimes funny, at other times brash and controversial, but always well meaning. I care about my sisters. I care about women as a whole. I hate to see women, even in passing, tied up in the invisible strings of empty encounters. It wears on us all and speaks to what we will pass on to the next generation.
So button up your top. Stop aspiring to be the next great Instagram model. Be choosy with who you sleep with, and even choosier with who you disclose that information to. Be smart, be safe, and stay sexy - not oversexed!