Sex good, violence bad

Why do Americans scream bloody murder about sex—while committing bloody murder?

Mark Drolette is a Sacramento writer and occasional SN&R contributor.

CAUTION: The following paragraph possesses a high “ick” factor. Proceed at your own risk.

Here goes: Can you imagine George W. Bush and Dick Cheney having sex? (I warned you.) No, silly, not with each other. Not that there would be anything wrong with that. Which, really, is my whole point: If those two and their fellow war-loving imperialists spent more (any) time screwing, the less time they’d have to screw (with) everyone else.

Then again, maybe they’re just what our country deserves, given its baffling dichotomy regarding sex and violence. Americans go ballistic over a televised nipple, yet happily tolerate blood and guts, both fake and real, that appear endlessly on the boobless tube.

During a trip I took to Spain, I noticed the weirdest thing while watching a movie on TV: breasts were freely shown, but the bloodiest scenes had been snipped. That’s the exact opposite of what we’d see on American television. I soon realized, though, this would likely seem weird only to an American. Citizens of any society worth its civilized salt get it: Sex good. Violence bad.

This idea that some societal good might actually be derived from killing less and humping more is not unprecedented. You’ve heard of bonobos? They’re very congenial great apes who do each other incessantly, in every manner and configuration imaginable.

Tell me about morality only after explaining how it’s more ethical for holier-than-thou politicians to condemn joyful, recreational boffing than to repeatedly hand blank checks to Bush and Cheney so the next toothless-but-resources-rich country on the neocon-provided checklist can be attacked.

And, while we’re at it about going at it: Where does all this “sex is sacred” nonsense come from? Is it because so many folks shout “Oh, god!” while they’re doing it?

Actually, it’s easier to peg this carnality canard’s primary source: organized religion, yet another male-dominated, power-mongering control system, one that ignores the bizarreness of blessing troops to go a-slaying while damning those who go a-laying. Come on, people!

Better yet, just come.

Reject the fallacy that war begets peace, but sex for its own sake is a shameful thing. Sex is fun! Throw down those arms, throw up those legs, choose someone (or several someones) you like and get it on. Besides, if the goddess Jenitalia hadn’t wanted us to bang away, she wouldn’t have made it feel so good. (You believe in your mythical beings; I’ll believe in mine.)

A column like this shouldn’t come without a safer-sex warning, so here ’tis: STDs? No fun. Unwanted pregnancy? Ditto. Condoms? Re-ditto, but pure giggles compared to the first two. Cover up, buttercup.

My message is hardly new. “Make love, not war” has been around for years and disparaged by both the pious and just plain envious for just as long. But I put it to you that putting it to others sexually rather than violently would make the world a calmer place, especially if those in control would heed the need.

In the interim, the next time you’re at an anti-war rally (between tumbles, natch, and while sporting that splendid “just-done” look), feel free to borrow the following for your sign: “Play safe, play often. Maybe it’ll stop the bombs from droppin’.”