Sex on the Blog

I think about sex a lot.

As a homosexual, homophobic, red blooded mammal of the male variety, it comes naturally.

For example, if I converse with a man about, say, the weather, it's essential to put up a front, allowing them to see me either as a perfectly harmless straight bloke, or as gay as an Enid Blyton picnic, depending on what they find acceptable. (Generally, I choose the former; acting excessively camp makes me want to take myself outside and beat myself up as an example to others.) Woman, however, are less fussy about that kind of thing, and I can discuss the current meteorological situation with them without first having to check my belt buckle is facing the right way, or whatever daft system homosexuals are using to 'identify themselves' these days.

So it helps to be aware of sex. That way, I can avoid going up to the wrong one and mentioning Madonna.

As to the other kind of sex, I try not to think about it. It's said that men think about it all the time, but that's not true. We think about it at set times, once or maybe twice a day at the most. The rest of the time we're too busy deciding what channel to flip too during the ad breaks.

And I certainly don't write about it on this blog. This is probably to my downfall; sex sells, and he's a much better salesman than I am. Just having the word sex on this blog will increase my Google score tenfold, and if I include the words 'slut' and 'porn' (or 'Pr0n' or whatever the devil the kids call it these days) I'd have the top ranking site for months. But sex is taboo here. You see, my family read this blog and talking about sex in front my family would be like chatting about Chinese box kites to a Pro-Wrestler. It's just not the kind of thing that comes up in conversation.

In fact, the entirety of my sexual communication with my parents came, quite appropriately, during one of our traditional weekly bible studies, a tradition, which if my memory serves me, lasted for about 6 weeks. (Of course my memory has never served me once, not even so much as got me a beer from the fridge. But I digress...) We were reading one of those family friendly passages that mentions harlots and sodomy and other such wholesome things when, an ignorant child, I asked what a prostitute was.
My dad sighed.
"A prostitute,' he said, 'is someone who has sex for money.'
I nodded wisely. To my immature self, sex simply something enjoyable and extremely naughty, I couldn't think of a better job. It was fun, exciting and profitable. So naturally it was easy to see why God hated it.

My sister pushed a bit further.
'He doesn't know what sex is, does he?'

Now of course I knew what sex is. We had books in school which described the reproductive rituals of Daddy and Mummy robot in great detail. Sex, as far as I was aware, was a kind of horny metallic struggle.
Under pressure, and seeing a chance to embarrass my parents, I shook my head.
My dad turned peach. 'Surely you know what sex is?' I shook again causing him to increase several notches to Virgin red. My mum, realising that if this went much further my father would clash with the curtains, stepped in.
'Sex,' she said, 'is when mummy and daddy get together to make a baby,’
And with that, my dad turned back and carried on reading.

And that was that, the entirety of my sexual education. In a way now, I'm glad they didn’t teach me the ins and outs of reproductive sex. It would have been quite a waste of their time. And so I don't talk about sex on this blog. I wouldn't want to force my family into admitting I actually know about it....

But there's another reason sex is Taboo for the Freelance Cynic, one that I'll serve up for your lustful pleasure next week. It will take me at least that long to gain enough courage to talk about the filthy topic again anyway.

After all... I'm British.

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• Si-Kick - My Predictions for 2008
• Eeek-mail - Or how the internet almost got me fired
• Taking note - Or my Static Obsession