As Documentation of My Sex Life Goes, This Is A Form I Can Do Without
A lot of people seem to be obsessed with documenting their lives and sex lives. From posting pictures of every meal they prepare (or even just order in a bistro) to snapping selfies at tourist destinations, it’s simply a way of life for countless masses of Instgrammers, tweeters and Facebookers.
It’s not really Calico’s thing to document her own every move, but she respects the people who have the courage to share so much of themselves with the world — including a deep appreciation of the professional exhibitionists who populate the world’s live sex feeds and cam shows.
Still, there are some ways of documenting (or perhaps “being documented”) that will never appeal to her, even if they’re much appreciated by those who consume and are informed by such documentation. In fact, some of the most historically significant moments of documented sex involve processes and situations which Calico would go to great lengths to avoid. Especially those that would require her to plan her own death in meticulous detail.
What sort of documentation could conceivably require THAT, you might reasonably ask? Read Calico’s new post “As Documentation of My Sex Life Goes, This Form I Can Do Without” for the answer.
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For someone who writes about sex a lot, I generally stay away from going into too much detail about my own sex life. One reason for that is I’m a quite private person, really. I don’t have social media accounts under this pseudonym, nor do I share anything I write as Calico on the accounts I do have under my real name.
I also think there’s arguably too much documenting of people’s lives these days, whether it comes in the form of oversharing on social media, or participating in some downright weird, professionally produced documentary distributed by the likes of Netflix.
Onward and Upward, All Ye Highly Dedicated Sex Experimenters!
Having said that, I’m full of admiration for folks bolder than I who do things like perform in live sex shows, or who help advance our understanding of sex by having sex for science. Along those lines, I think it would be a particularly amazing service to humanity for researchers to finally and officially document what it’s like to have sex in space, for example.
And I don’t think we ought to stop our scientific sexual investigation at space-sex, either. I mean, I’m sure sex on a submarine is something that has happened, but so far as I’m aware nobody has engaged in such while under the scrutiny of proper scientists.
I think we can rule out studying sex in certain other extreme situations and climates, though. It would be downright irresponsible to attempt intercourse in the path of a lava flow, for example. Granted, some intrepid souls have already investigated what it’s like to have sex at the other end of the temperature scale, but I don’t relish the opportunity to follow their example.
Not This Epoch, Honey; I’ve Got a Strong Desire to NOT be Fossilized
If there’s one way in which I’m very certain I don’t want my sex life to be documented, it’s in fossilized amber – something which evidently happened to a couple most unfortunate flies approximately 40-50 million years ago.
On the bright side, the fate of these flies is very exciting to a certain set of scientists.
“The research furthers our understanding of prehistoric southern ecosystems in Australia and New Zealand during the Late Triassic to mid-Paleogene periods,” said Jeffrey Stilwell, the lead author of the paper. “Our findings provide exciting new insights into the origin, antiquity and evolution of the modern Australian biota and show that there may be a vast potential for future, similar finds in Australia and New Zealand.”
That’s very nice for Jeffrey Stillwell and his ilk, but when you consider how such fossils are formed, the fact that this particular chunk of fossilized amber exists represents a serious (and seriously ancient) bummer for those flies.
As noted by Bill Bryson in his (most excellent) book A Short History of Nearly Everything, “it isn’t easy to become a fossil.”
“In order to become a fossil, several things must happen,” Bryson observes. “First, you must die in the right place.”
While I can’t speak for anyone else reading this, personally my life has enough troubles as it is, without taking into consideration the sort of planning it would take to assure I die in the right place to wind up as a fossil – let alone becoming a fossil whose formation happened to coincide with the all too infrequent occasion of having sex worth being immortalized in amber, or stone, or whatever other medium might get the job done.
But I’m Always Open to Potential Changes of Heart in the Future
Who knows, though? Maybe by the time I’m in my eighties, if I’m fortunate enough to get there, I’ll feel differently.
Perhaps by then, I’ll feel compelled to offer something more to the ages than my snarky blog posts and could conceivably get on board with the idea of having one last quickie for science’s sake.
Or maybe I’ll just take up bridge. As hobbies for the advanced in age go, somehow that one sounds a lot less unpleasant than being forever encased in tree resin.
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