“That is what sex is all about.”
God bless Catholic converts, eh? John C. Wright, in an article concerning Sex, demonstrates yet again the raw value of proper catechesis, in addition to hitting the nail exactly on the head in regard to what makes Sex…well…sexy:
Achieving true pleasure requires rules. It requires self-discipline, in the same way winning a ball game requires drill, exercise, and discipline . Team uniforms, loyalty, good sportsmanship, heeding the coach, obeying the umpire, playing fair are all part of the long-term pleasure. (Without getting too technical, the philosophy which preaches this rational and long-term approach to pleasure is called Epicureanism, and it is distinct from Hedonism exactly in that Hedonism does not promote subordinating the passions to the reason, as Epicureanism does. Objectivism, for example, is Epicurean but not Hedonist, since it condemns certain types of pleasures as not befitting to reason.)
So, no. The sex-drenched culture promotes sex-appeal for commercial purposes or mating purposes, but does not promote femininity, which is a more complex concept than mere sex appeal. The modesty and delicacy traditionally associated with the fairer sex is absent. The sex-drenched culture is vulgar and blatant, and, paradoxically, unsatisfying and unsexy in the long run. Glancing-eyed, gay Venus begins to yawn.
The most erotic experience in life is the copulation between a man and wife when they are trying to get pregnant. You light the candles, you pour the wine, the tear the bridal veil away, you carry her over the threshold like a Sabine woman (it is sexier if she kicks her legs) and you set down to the pragmatic business of baby-making. The wife’s hormones are fully engaged; the psychological commitment of both partners is absolute; the women is not necessarily worried about the man wandering away or wondering if he will call back because he is fettered by his wedding ring and his sacred honor; the element of selfishness and mutual exploitation is absent; there is nothing perverted or kinky about it, because there is no need to stimulate artificially a limp and jaded sexual impulse; both surrender in a sublime way to love, all-conquering Cupid, and keep nothing back. That is what sex is all about. That is what is really sexy.
Compare that to waking up the next morning in Tony Stark’s chick-magnet pad, to find him gone, and Pepper Potts calling you a cab or calling you a trashbag. Hm. Not quite the same, issit? Not quite as romantic.
In real sex, the man does not need to wear a balloon on his dick, the women is not fiddling with an IUD, and the couple rejoices, rather than quails, if the lady’s period is late. The couple does not quail in terror that a tiny sperm, with the tenacity of a marine storming Normandy Beach, might somehow perhaps have survived the spermicide. (And cowering to a sperm is humiliating).
Sex without fear is different from so-called safe sex, and much better. Fertile women are cuter.
This is a fairly frank way of saying what Pope John Paul II was getting at in his Theology of the Body. In the end, it’s all about being a real man, or a real woman, to the fullest possible extent. Externality balanced by receptivity, a union and communion of persons that remains open to — and then celebrates — fertility.
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