This week my brother Dan has volunteered to guest-write The Joe Donatelli Column. Like everything Dan writes, this column is raw, honest and brutally funny. If you are easily offended by sexual content, then I suggest you skip the column this week and check out Kitten War, the never-ending battle for the title of cutest kitten on earth. If you’d rather have your mind and soul violated this Valentine’s Day, read on. – Joe
How shall I fuck thee?
By Daniel Donatelli
“She did not know whether the jolt of terror shook her first and she thrust her elbows at this throat, twisting her body to escape … this was not part of living, but a thing one could not bear longer than a second. She tried to tear herself away from him … She fell back against the dressing table, she stood crouching, her hands clasping the edge behind her, her eyes wide, colorless, shapeless in terror … He had thrown her down on the bed and she felt the blood beating in her throat… He did it as an act of scorn. Not of love, but as defilement …. Then she felt him shaking with the agony of a pleasure unbearable even to him, she knew that she had given that to him, that it came from her, from her body … She felt empty, light and flat … He went out, without a word or a glance at her.” -Ayn Rand, “The Fountainhead”
The first thing you need to understand is that I was raised as a Roman Catholic during the conservative Reagan Era of the 1980s, and by parents who were a hyperbolic combination of those influences. I gleaned the first vestiges of my general understanding of sexuality from priests, nuns and school teachers representing the Catholic Church – and let’s face it, learning about sex and love from a Catholic authority is like having an Asian woman teach you to do a J-turn in a Cadillac – as well as from a society determined to reverse the liberal sexual mores of the previous two swingin’ decades.
I was more or less the ideal child: I was determined to do whatever it took to make my parents – as well as society in general – happy, and when possible, proud of me. Whatever it took. I listened to what they said and it was gospel. No matter how full of shit it was.
Through that confluence of behavioral influences I became such a bizarrely frightened and sexually anxious person that I ended up not losing my virginity until… well, let’s just say my parents should either be extremely proud or kill themselves.
You see, I not only thought “No” meant “No!” but I thought “No” meant “Rape!” Like if you were ever getting intimate with a girl and she showed the slightest single sign of reservation, or even began a word with the letter “N,” it meant that you were a rapist who was going to jail and then Hell and then Hell’s Jail.
Now let’s go back to my freshman year in college: the first year of my exposure to modes of thinking different from those with which I was raised. I begin reading Ayn Rand’s “The Fountainhead” and eventually I get to the passage quoted above: the borderline rape scene between the heroic Howard Roark and the equally wonderful Dominique Francon.
Needless to say, I was rattled by the experience. Here was a sex scene that didn’t involve laying a newly married, fragile little quivering she-girl down onto a bed of silk-soft rose petals and kissing her for hours and hours before the tender insertion of a warm physical bond. This was a scene where a Dirty Man throws the door open, pins a borderline non-compliant woman into submission, and leaves. This wasn’t making sweet tender love. This was Fucking.
Contrary to all of my previous experiences with and exposures to the subject, here was a woman who voluntarily wrote sex scenes where women are treated the same way I treat my hand. As a non-compliant lover, rife with contempt, scorn and shame.
Years have passed and here I stand today, confused as ever.
So, women of the world, I must ask: How shall I fuck thee?
Shall I fuck thee tenderly, like cottony field rabbits in the lazy summertime wind-swept wheat, or shall I fuck thee like a drunk biker in a shithouse – like a strong natural force, like a hairy animal?
I understand that not everyone is the same: that some girls want a gentle fuzzy love-hug and some girls want to be spit in the ass while I pull their hair and spank their tits with one hand and choke them with the other. But how am I – today’s urban gentleman – supposed to know who wants what kind of fucking? Are there signs I should be looking for? Like if a girl wears Ugg boots, does that mean she likes being spanked or does it mean she likes looking foolish? If a girl is distant and abrasive, does that mean she wants me to tear through those layers and stimulate the clitoris of her heart with my tumescent tongue? Or does it mean that I’m creeping her out like usual?
So, please allow me to put it bluntly:
How shall I fuck thee?
(You can read more of Dan’s work at www.gonefiction.com.)