sex betrays SES
She's not ashamed—her first was with a macho dancer.
A former professor once said that we fall for people who are two levels above or below us. And she? Maybe she'd fall for a college graduate at least, intelligent although may not finish with a cum (pun intended) laude, multilingual with respectable pedigree.
Or so they thought.
His name was Kim and she met him last July as she was getting drunk at Tomas Morato. What Kim taught her was more real than that of Weber, Nietzsche, Foucault, Butler, and even Aristotle. To hell with Weber’s rationality, for the Iron Cage is not made up of cost-benet analyses, but of raging hormones and we all are its prisoners. Fuck with Nietzsche’s “God is dead”, because God was there, in His truest form blessing her with the wonders of the human body that is temple made of sin. It was the most awakening homily. There were wise words waiting in his lips and she was willing to trace them with hers. Foucault has never been personalized to her until that moment, knowledge stripped of its pretentions and the embodiment of man’s naked power which no amount of resistance can contain. He spoke to her in touch, in stares, and in senses instead of highfaluting words published in journals. In school, she's uttered over and over again that gender is performance, and sex and gender are different, but really when it comes to the bed there’s nothing more performative than the primal instincts of clawing and quivering. Forget what Aristotle said about moderation, that fool, because staying in the middle would never be as climactic as experiencing the end.
His tongue could speak in a syntax only passion could understand. She wanted someone who could speak Romance languages to make romance with her, only to realize there is utmost beauty in speaking the old languages of grunts and gasps that existed even before Spanish, French, or Latin. He wrote complex words in her skin which made it hard for her to understand simultaneous with the goose bumps from nerve to nerve contact. There was reality in his arms screaming at her. It was as firm as his grip, and it was telling her that what makes us human is not up in the Ivory Tower but is down is down is down. You feel the wind blow up in the mountains but you feel them down in the plains as well. And at the end of the day, blowing down there feels the greatest, because down there is where water falls freely but at the same time where those that can fly get liberated.
She loved every second of it, but still her professor was right. She didn’t fall. Falling presupposes lack of agency and she is everything but docile. It was instead an act of submission to which she is willing to claim fault.
This may be an unashamed confession.
