ASK DR. WRATH

"Why Is Sex So Lame?"

Dear Dr. Wrath,
Why is sex so fucking lame? Seriously, I am a dude in my mid-twenties and have had six or seven partners, and can count on one hand how many times the sex was actually worth the effort. It’s usually just a boring, wasteful, pointless affair, and I would much rather be reading comic books or playing beer pong. Yet our entire culture makes such a huge deal about it: is there something wrong with me?
Praying for Blue-Balls,
Macon, GA


Dear Praying,
Through countless millenia spent observing the behavior of you stupid idiot mortals, I have come to a similar conclusion: the sex you have is basically a really dull episode of Double Dare with less clothes and more fumbling.

You remember Double Dare, the late-80s game show on Nickolodean, right? Like Double Dare, dull human sex usually lasts about half an hour, alternating between pointless trivia questions (“Why did you buy the ribbed condoms?” “Do you like it from the back?” “Are you sure you never fucked Steve?”), inane stunts (across the back of the sofa, on the kitchen table, next to the cat box), and bathroom breaks, all of it culminating in frenzied final minute where someone gets slime in their hair. (I dare you to come up with a more accurate definition!)

The problem is, your virtual culture finds it necessary to champion the carnal lusts to an unnatural degree. It’s to the point where people hear the name “Sting” and automatically think not of his ground-breaking music career nor his stolid defense of the rain forests, but his ability to fill the dirty hole for six hours. But who the hell wants to have sex for six hours, let alone with a decrepit old man who calls you “Roxanne” in a creepy falsetto over and over again?

It’s a shame such coital stamina can’t be put to better uses, such as space exploration. Imagine an interplanetary rocket powered by the sexual activity of its inhabitants—you could send Sting, Jenna Jameson, and that chick who did 500 dudes on a mission to Mars, powered solely by their bunny-humping! After six months hurling through space, Sting looks up from his chafing, bleeding butterfly position to see a tiny red dot through the Spermes-3’s portal—“Blimey, ten more months to go!”—before grabbing more KY and flipping Jenna onto her stomach.

Ten months later, the sex-powered ship penetrates the Martian atmosphere and lands somewhere near Cydonia. When the exhausted trio steps out onto the Red Planet’s landscape, they are shocked to not only discover breathable air, but vegetation, buildings, and a pristine, gold-tinged blue sky stretching from horizon to breathtaking horizon.

“My God,” says Jenna. “This is amazing!”

“Wow,” says the chick who did 500 dudes. “There’s so much to do and explore!”

“What should we do first?” they ask Sting in unison.

“We could fuck,” suggests Sting.

Seriously though, sex could be so much more. At the risk of sounding like some sappy “boddhisattva of compassion” (ahem, Chenrezig), one of the keys to non-pointless sex is actual love between you and your fuck-buddy. If you actually care about the person, if you’ve actually gone to over five R-rated movies together and know what types of Chinese food each other’s parents are allergic to, you have a much better chance of your sex being at least slightly better than an hour-long episode of Fun House.

Thinking back to your few positive encounters: you may recall a deep desire for actual union with your partner, like you wanted to fuck them so hard you would be inside their body and they in yours. You may have expressed this in aggressive ways, such as biting their shoulder or licking their ass, or more gentle ways like a warmth emanating between your chests. You may have even felt a sense of danger in this state, like you could fuck forever, infinitely, and with each thrust you could literally split your partner in two (or be split in two). Regardless, it was as if the illusory barriers between you as individuals, held in place by language, thoughts, social roles, etc., had dissolved and there was but one entity doing the fucking.

In the continuation of this state, self-consciousness disappears and you and your partner completely die to the moment, losing all sense of past and future in your total focus on the Now. And in this state you give completely to your partner, holding nothing back as if s/he were the entire universe and you were all the wisdom, love and compassion in that universe. With each thrust, each pulsation of this One Heart at the center of it all, you satisfy your partner’s every whim, exploding him/her from the inside out with sun-stars of inexhaustible bliss as every last molecule, atom and quark is touched by your writhing, God-like member, until—

FUCK! Someone gets slime in their hair and the episode is over.



Burning alive with a question of cosmic curiosity? Ask DrWrath@the-manifest.org. All topics welcome, but don’t expect a “nice” answer. He is a deity of wrath, after all.