The Libertine Lover

Sometimes I think –
I love making love with a man who is sensitive,
Who can hold a conversation about
The important things afterwards
A man interested in my psyche
As well as my body and who conveys
That sympathy in the depth of his embrace
And the tenderness of words whispered in
Poignant communion
Then sometimes I think –
Fuck that!
Right now I just want to be drilled senseless
By a sexy neanderthal with a rock hard dick!
A man monosyllabic not by choice
In that contrived, ‘strong, silent type’ pose –
But by necessity
Because his vocabulary contains only
The bare minimum number of sounds required to
Secure food, shelter and sex
There’s something loin-stirring about a man
Stripped of everything but his primal urges

An atavistic, lupine creature
Unable to ruin my carnal encounters
With unnecessary access to an intellect

Scientists call this phenomenon
The Liam Gallagher effect
Liam’s ex-girlfriend Patsy Kensit
Once complained of her time with him:
‘I didn’t read a book in two years’
Silly Patsy!
You made a schoolgirl error there,
You don’t move in with a man like this and build a life!
You fuck him!
And you love every sweat-drenched
Second of it!
You leave the mattress looking like a war zone
And then you leave him lying in the debris
Chest heaving, groin throbbing…
But you haven’t exploited him
Oh no!
Because to eat, sleep and fuck
Is his existential pleasure
And all your emotional depth
Your right-on politics
Your rapier wit and your
Mean absolutely nothing to him
The only questions worth asking here are:
Can you ride his dick like a frenzied
Rodeo queen?
Can you suck that thing with genuine
Can you touch his body and not care if
You touch his soul?
Can you abandon yourself to a
Purely physical experience and
Reach transcendence through that
Somatic rhythmic indifference?
Because if you can’t,
If you can only get off on love
If you can only cum with the
Accompanying desperate assurance that
He has feelings for you
Then you can never really give your
Body fully to a man
Not even in the bliss of idyllic union
Will your desire for him be authentic
And your ‘salt swollen cunt’ – if I can use that
Great truth-teller Rochester for my own ends –
Will be a ‘passive pot’ for romantic fools to ‘spend in’
And all carnal truth will evaporate with your synthetic juices
From the dishonoured bedsheet
‘Such natural freedoms are but just
There’s something generous in mere lust’
Said the original Libertine
And so, if neither lover is fucking under
False pretences
Let them rise to those sublime heights together
And charge the other’s body with
A sacred electricity
Sexual energy, in it’s pure form
Is as hallowed as love
It is not contaminated
By what?
I’ve never heard a convincing argument for the
‘Sex, in and of itself, is somehow tainted’ line
Outside of hypocritical religion or
Societal psychosis
Lust may be a deadly sin
According to the Bible
But those irrelevant Abrahamic texts were written
By men terrified of female power and sexuality
Men who could only handle its unleashing
If they could call it whoring
Ha! Our pre-‘civilisation’ sisters and brothers
Would not have comprehended this calumny!
Where tribal culture existed free from
Chivalric chains and patriarchal mendacity
We truly have ages of deceit to undo
And this poem is part of the unpicking
I must have it – in every aspect of life
Or life is not worth living
Truth in every interaction is
The foundation of integrity
And I will demand it
In my work
In my friendships
And in my bed
Fuck in truth
And you will be washed clean.


Alison Banville is co-editor of BSNews

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