So flaccid. So precious. It’s the kind of thing you’d hear from a guy who keeps his socks on during the act— missionary only—then asks if you’re okay afterwards. Make love to me? Ew. No thanks. You can f*ck me, or you can see yourself out.
Love and lust always seemed separate in my mind. ‘Love’ was what you had when you walked hand-in-hand and made starry-eyed plans about the future. ‘F*ck’ was what you did when you were feeling carnal, unable to keep your hands off of each other. Lately, though, I’ve been rethinking my stance on the whole thing.
Maybe it’s because I’m now in a nauseatingly healthy relationship, or because I just have a fondness for all things ’70s (funk music, going braless), but I now like how ‘making love’ rolls off the tongue.
It’s evocative of a time before Botox, Brazilians, and vaginal rejuvenation—when the best-selling manual The Joy of Sex gave a generation instructions for ‘advanced lovemaking’, complete with illustrations of hirsute, lusty couples getting it on, free from any concerns of measuring up to some external standard of beauty set by society. Of course, the phrase couldn’t last.
As our sexual culture opened up, ‘making love’ began to sound downright corny—the province of old movies (Woody Allen, anyone?) and old-guy classic rock (I’m looking at you, Bad Company). As sex positivity became mainstream, it wasn’t necessary to euphamise the act—no, on the contrary, sex became something we talked about in upfront and graphic terms...a