Mrs Stroke Bloke just walked in and asked what I was up to. It probably looked like I was idly eying a Joan Didion essay on self-respect. But I was hard at work. Honest. I’d already read articles on A Formula For Happiness, Why Some People Dislike Everything and Seven Thoughts That Are Bad For You.
— I gotta tell you: I’m going for something big here, but I think my reach is going to exceed my grasp on this one.
— Why not just do something goofy?
As it happens, I’m not going to write about something goofy today. Oh no. I’m going to talk about something deadly serious. A matter of life and death, no less. Something that may be on your mind right now.
Everyone’s aware, I should think, of that old claim that men think of sex once every seven seconds. That would be around 8,000 times a day. Or, about this often:
This “stat” has S-E-X! been debunked, of course. A study at Ohio State University last year looked into how often subjects thought about sex during the course of a S-E-X! day. That’s where thinking about sex means thinking about “intercourse, nudity, or something with erotic content, not just the S-E-X! word sex.”
Now that I’m thinking about sex — but not, right now, something with erotic content — I should do another experiment on The Brain Of Stroke Bloke. Except, instead of examining my internal chatter for the expression of thought at random intervals during the day, this time I would carry a golf tally counter in my pocket and click it each time I thought about sex. Then I could report back to y’all with the results.
But as the picture above illustrates, sex is dangerous. Inspired by the story of “a couple [who] plunged to their deaths after the window they were apparently having sex against fell through,” this week’s special guest publication, The Sun, shared some tragic tales of sexual misadventure last June. Or, if you prefer, The Sun’s Super Soar-Away Summer Sex-Death Stories. They ran from electrocution by nipple clamp to being crushed under a strip club piano to teenage carbon monoxide poisoning (band name, Friendoftheblogpaul) to death by 12-hour orgy bet to big cat sex death maul (worst Star Wars name ever) to balcony romp fall to chicken coop masturbation station to three million dollar fatality threesome.
Good friendsoftheblog will probably be aware that my stroke occurred in the course of vigorous night-time activity. It was interesting to find in Aneurysm Awareness meetings how many people popped their bubbles on weekend nights, though we didn’t discuss how often this happened during drug-fueled dance-crazed hamster-eating sexathons. But fortunately, science….
A 1999 study found that every year there are probably around 11,000 cases of sudden death during sex in America each year. During the soon-to-be-deceased person having sex, that is. I’m not necessarily blaming you. Unless you were having sex with them. While electrocuting his or her nipples. On a strip club piano.
So, keep at it, you lovely people. Particularly since there are many benefits to regular sex. As Nerve puts it, “[a] lot of wonderful things can come as a result of sex: reduced anxiety, a boosted immune system, the creation of Idris Elba.” According to that first link, it’ll also “make you happy [well, durr], sooth your pain, decrease neuroticism, and reduce prostate cancer risk.” Salon appends further reasons you might want to incorporate this type of recreation into your health regime:
- It’s legit exercise
- It makes you happier
- Notwithstanding everything above, it makes you live longer
- It prevents heart disease
- It reduces cancer risk
- It reduces stress
- It makes you feel better about yourself
- It maiks yoo smarturr
But what ever you do, don’t talk about it. That would be terribly unhealthy. Leave that thick, six-inch, comment box alone.
Genteel people would never talk about such things in public! Or, apparently, in schools. I know I’ve told you before but I’m still surprised by how much better the sex ed we had in public school in RI was than basically what everyone else I ever met had. I always assumed that everybody got lots of fact-based information. Turns out, not so much.
As far as I remember, ours was a day in primary six (roughly fifth grade? I can never remember which way the year slides). After the girls had left for their own school down the road. Quite technical stuff. Guess that’s why they had to send us on co-ed hiking trips in Third Form.
Seriously, I think that’s why this stuff has to be more in the open. I think too many people grow up with a stunted relationship with s-e-x. And that ends up being really bad for society as a whole.
I’m getting a new piano actually!
And I presume your comment about the wire in the tiny letter (sign up!) was flame bait to make me read more quickly so I could get to the comments more quickly with a poem about sex
TV and death
So here’s my poem, “teenage co death”. Harrumph (clears throat)
I’m amazed you haven’t watched
The wire
Yet you find the time
To blog about being crushed
By a piano; and rushed
By an electro nipple clamp; so I gushed
About the wire
If you know what I mean
You should come to the next poetry reading!
Yes, Friendoftheblogpaul, let’s do a poetry slam! Baggsy me Gil Scott Heron!
Also, new piano? ‘Citin’! What you getting?
No comment. Is that what I’m supposed to do? Not comment. Except nicely written and reasoned piece. You should pitch this to other blogs and mags.
Talking of well-regarded USTV drama, the original House Of Cards that spawned the Kevin Spacey remake included the lovely line, “You might very well think so, but I couldn’t possibly comment.” Which I suppose is commenting. By not commenting. So, yes, you should totally do that. Leaves that comment box pristine.
Having said that, thanks for your comment, Jen. Very kind.
Favorite poem? Maybe not. But very a propos.
The Beautiful Poem
by Richard Brautigan
I go to bed in Los Angeles thinking
about you.
Pissing a few moments ago
I looked down at my penis
affectionately.
Knowing it has been inside
you twice today makes me
feel beautiful.
3 A.M.
January 15, 1967
A propos, indeed. Thanks for setting fire to my carefully-nurtured G/U rating, you great, big, throbbing beam of transgression. Glad to read you’re able to focus on your (or Brautigan’s) cock in the face of the ongoing unrest and rumours of coup. Srzly.
There was a newspaper column today about how so much of the current problem here is caused by “an acute shortage of empathy”.
Also this poem may help you get some more interesting traffic. It always blows my mind to see the kind of lunatic search terms that sometimes draw people to my sites or those I work on. Though it’s always innocent content that somehow is reached by twisted, twisted minds.
Brilliant! I’ll be doing a search on “acute shortage of empathy”, then. Maybe that innocent search will find some twisted, twisted content. Or will it find nothing, because I’m searching in English…?
Historically, a good number of people end up on apoplectic.me searching for images relating to “Buddy Jesus” or “1984”. I suppose they get what they’re looking for.
Now, thanks to your poem, we can clean up on the “penis AND stroke” crowd, too.