So, an Oxford sex column. Déja vu, I hear you cry? Not quite. Because, unlike that Oxbridge Sex Blog, this is unashamedly a thinking man’s exploration of the existential crisis that is the bumping of respective uglies.
In fact, I like to think of myself as the Id to the Cherwell’s Super-ego. And a much needed Id, I might add. Because Oxford is a sexy place, non? Who hasn’t been taken roughly in the Bodleian these days? Indulged in a hand job at Hassan’s? And the great thing about the incestuous closeness of the collegiate system is that we all know about it, who’s doing it with who (whom?), where, when, and for how long. A kind of sexual and intellectual voyeurism emerges in which a blog and column seem only the next logical step. I know what my linguist friend got in his collections for example, what his thoughts are upon Lacanian psychoanalysis; but I also know that he prefers KY jelly to your standard generic lube, and whether he favours giving or receiving. I can link myself to anyone in my college in three steps of drunken sexual engagement. Or fewer, if you are a very lucky boy.
Yesterday over a still inebriated breakfast I found myself discussing the merits of anal sex with my housemates (the results were illuminating, but – this being my first column an’ all – I don’t want to burn out too fast, you’ll have to use your trained and privileged imaginative capacities for that). I found out recently that the boy living in the room next to me has just bought some earplugs; apparently I get particularly vocal after a few drinks… In my opinion, this is only a good thing. I refer to the libinous freedom and frankness, of course, rather than my housemates hearing me approach climax.
If we really are among the brightest young people in the world, we should be able to talk about the most interesting thing in the world – no, that’s not the comedy of Molière, it’s certainly not the politics of the Oxford Union, it’s fucking. And we should be able to talk about it in a less infuriating way than The Blogger Who Shall Not Be Named.
So let’s talk; about fucking one another, or indeed fucking oneself (though avoid the latter on a Monday morning, apparently it‘s not cool to make your scout an unwilling voyeur to your onanism – my bad). It’s the one thing driving everything we do, according to my man Freud. Or is that a simplistic reading of his work? Answers on a postcard to the Cherwell offices, please. If you’ve got a hand free.
