E-MAIL: rexbreathes@hotmail.com

I’m not sure why everyone’s so excited about a meteor hitting the earth in thirty years or what that has to do with sex, but I’m certain there’s some missing link: meteors, sex, death and no more taxes or Tommy and Pamela Lee sex tapes.

Newspapers ran SCREAMERS announcing the hard rock’s arrival while the local and national TV news gave it more than a bump in the night. Did it send any lovers to bed with asteroid fantasies pounding in their heads–big and little. I doubt it. Not consciously. But what about that part of the brain that’s left over from the dinosaurs–the cerebral cortex–that’s all kill or fuck. And maybe our primitive brain remembers the last time one of those babies smashed into the state of Arizona: how the dust rose up and blotted out the sun which killed the foliage which starved the vegetarian dinosaurs who fed the carnivorous dinosaurs... I wonder if that part of the brain got a little restless when it heard the news: we’re all gonna die in thirty years so you better get it now, get it good and make it count.

Which brings me to my point–and you thought I didn’t have one-that sex is a primal kinda thing first and an Hallmark card, Shakespeare Sonnet and Victoria Secrets commercial thing second. Long before we get out the condoms, lubrication, platform shoes, waist cinchers, strap-on dildos, vibrators, porno movies, lotions and potions and poetry in motions, there is the urge, at a molecular level, which initiates in the good ol’ cerebral cortex. Whether she or he is giving you hand, face or the fuck of the millennium, the back of the brain is hell bent for lather and the survival of the species propagated and played out on the delusional battlefield of love. Andrea Dworkin says all heterosexual sex is rape.. .of woman by men. And she’s right in the most limited sense. All sex between men and women and women and women and men and men is a controlled dance of violence unleashed in the cerebral cortex and filtered through the frontal lobes of the brain and the higher senses. Without violence, conflict, aggression, friction and a certain amount of domination and subjugation between partners there can be nothing more than dinner and polite conversation. Did you ever notice that the most passionate lovers also seem to be fighting half the time, or a good fight often leads to great sex–or vice-versa.

All the poetry in the world is not going to get me laid. It’s that little walnut at the base of her skull that’s going to tell her: I want to fuck you like an animal. And then the front of her brain letting that happen instead of shoving it back down into the swamp. (What’s wrong with pigs grunting in the mud, fighting over a piece of sooey.) And none of us will ever have any control over whether or not his or her walnut cracks open for you when you’re near. It’s biology. It’s chemistry. Or, as Valmont keeps repeating in his soliliquey near the end of “Dangerous Liaisons,” “It’s beyond my control”–either way. Sort of like whether or not a meteor slams into the earth in the year 2028.

So I know that sex is out there somewhere like a meteor approaching the outer limits of our solar system. And one day it may strike near the spot where she–whoever she may be–and I are standing. I know there exists the mathematical possibility that I will have sex again in this lifetime. After all, if President Clinton, and Tommy Lee and Michael Jackson can get it, then why not a dinosaur like me before I become fossilized remains in the Petrified Forest of northern Arizona? Think about it. If a meteor could strike the earth in your lifetime, then surely, you too could have sex again. That’s called reverse reduction ad absurdum, or, life is ridiculous. Since we’re all gonna go the way of the dinosaurs, might as well put some smiles on those lonely highway miles between here and the big one.

Next Month: Is Bruce Willis gay? Is Demi Moore bulimic? And which is more addicting: anal intrusion or vomiting. Or something else entirely different.