Bobby and Lucinda loved each other - or at least that was what they imagined as he looked down her sleeveless dress in English class and got a glimpse of the garden of earthly delights; and she wondered what 'it' would look like 'engorged', as the sex manuals described his 'desire'. Neither one of them knew much more than that behind the imaginings was a sexual potency that neither one could articulate. They just knew that they wanted to touch each other, kiss each other, feel each other and....
Their parents, church, and community stopped them right there. Good boys and girls did not invite the devil. He would be there soon enough. A girl's reputation was worth the gold of Persia and the boy's honor was of knightly value.
Yet they could not keep apart, kept brushing against each other in the cloak room, on the stairs, and on the way to class. It was a love that was meant to be.
And so it was that Bobby and Lucinda tumbled into the back seat of his father's Ford and did it. Why had no one told them that this was indeed the be-all and end-all, the finality, the blind purpose of living? Why had it been kept from them? Cunts, pricks, sucking, fucking as well as...well, Romeo and Juliet, Petrarch, knights and their fair maidens, and the Sonnets.
D.H. Lawrence had it right - sexual complementarity, a polite word for the balance between male power and female submission, or vice versa, was what described human nature best.
Nietzsche had said that the expression of individual will was the only validation of life in a meaningless world, but Lawrence and the Hindu Tantrics knew better; and Freud understood that reproduction was what drove sexual desire. The 'longevity imperative', he said, was behind orgasm. The entire bio-psycho-physiology of sex was rooted in fertility. It was all well and good to consider 'protection' but contraception would always limit any Lawrentian epiphany.
Bobby and Lucinda thought of none of this as they groped and fondled in the back seat of the Ford, and that was the whole point of Lawrence and Freud. Thinking neutered sexual desire. Most sexual liaisons might end unhappily, but the ones that succeeded would rise to epiphany, catharsis.
This is all by way of preamble, for the rest of Bobby and Lucinda's classmates had been roped into 'sexual identity'. Rather than pair off, lick and suck like teenagers had done since, before, and despite Victorian censoriousness, they diddled and dithered about who they were. Am I a bull, a femme, a girly boy, a trannie, a neutrino, a butch, or any one of a hundred other options on the gender spectrum? I cannot climb into the backseat of a Ford until I know who and what I am.
Who should or can a transitioning male-to-female have sex with? Did male desire die with the assumption of femaleness? Without a cunt what biological male could become a vessel? Without a prick what femme turned bricklaying macho could really rut and hammer home?
William Brighton, heir to a Boston and Newport family fortune, and recently become Willa Brighton, found himself betwixt and between. His childish desires to be like his mother had led down a dark alley, a dead end, a trash-strewn sexual gulag. Despite his requests to up the progesterone and advance the reassignment surgery, he couldn't rid himself of the shameful, prurient dreams which woke him. On top of his mother, ramming his desire home, he was father, brother, son, Everyman
His was a case of 'devoid wokism' - that awful state of having tried to become a useful, integrated, diverse person, but left high and dry on the curb, with neither tuxedo nor pinafore
Amanda Coulter, granddaughter of Phelps Coulter, captain of industry, entrepreneur of note, billionaire, and patriot, had wanted a volte face. She wanted to be the rightful, proper heir to her grandfather's reputation and fortune, and only gender assignment would right the ship.
Yet, after such reassignment, Amanda still found herself masturbating to images of her grandfather, Casanova and Lothario of immense proportions, lover of many women and sire to hundreds, on top of her.
Bobby and Lucinda had or wanted none of this gender rot, and Saturday after Saturday they rolled and rutted as best they could in the back seat of the Fairlane. They watched Willa Brighton swish and sashay in the auditorium, and the formerly Amanda Coulter, now dressed in biker leather and chains, spit, scratch, and hitch her balls on the athletic field, but paid them no mind.
In fact, they had to distance themselves from the juggernaut of sexual reform which in its multi-genderism, excluded them. They were considered pariahs, sexually retrograde nobodies. They were East Bornean mud men, slathering each other up to have sex in the jungle, troglodyte dinosaurs, primitive, unevolved animals.
They were, ironically, like Old Testament prophets. Deuteronomy and Kings spoke of little more than who begat whom, Jews having sex with cousins and second cousins, furthering the line of Isaac and Jacob and Ezekiel, taking and rejecting like lamb or sturgeon
Once again neither Bobby or Lucinda gave a thought either to the Bible or to the flouncy, chirping girly girl likes of Willa and Amanda.
Of course Lucinda got pregnant - whether expressed or not, this was what both she and Bobby had wanted all the time. No dry fucking, pulling out, coitus interruptus - that would have spoiled the absolute heterosexuality of their union; and what happened to them, the baby, or the rest of their mini-culture is irrelevant.
The incident of their backseat love never was reported lost as it was in the super-soaker reality of the Folsom Street Fair, a carnival of leather, chains, bull whips, and gay carousels. Normal, sucking and fucking the right persons and things never gets any ink these days; but Bobby and Lucinda earned their unacknowledged, unfeted place atop the heterosexual pyramid.
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