This is our truth, tell us yours
Jem wrote brilliantly about the fuckwittery that is ‘Make Love, Not Porn’. One of the joys of this blog is that if I provide my perspective on a topic, that’s all it is. It needs to be read alongside Jem’s thoughts, not against them – it’s an essay in harmony, not counterpoint.
I don’t know how you make love. Seriously. How do you make love? I know how to have sex, but I don’t know how to make love.
We think a lot about love here at Cigar, even though I haven’t a clue what making love means. I know what I think love is. Love is an experience, not a commodity. Can you make an experience? Lots of theme park operators and event organizers would like to claim you can, but they’re theme park operators and event organizers who depend on a mix of willing suspension of disbelief and the innocence of children in order to make a profit.
If love is an experience, I can’t make it. I try to live in the moment, not in a world of scripts and narrative arcs. I can hope that people’s experience of me is a loving one, but that’s not because I make love. I try to live with love for my neighbours and friends, and I hope that Jem’s experience of me is of someone who tries to love others because that’s the best survival strategy I know, but romantic love, packaged, sold and smelling of expensive perfume, turns my stomach.
The euphemism that is making love is a recipe for abuse; you’re told you must love the person who desires you and makes you come, because you’re making love. If you believe that you’re wide open to the abuser who knows there’s nothing more complicated to what they’re doing than the satisfaction of few desires.
So for me, having the courage to say that I don’t know how to make love is also a way of saying that I believe that more people will feel loved by me if I count on my actions not the words, than vice versa.