" 'Here I am!' puts the lover rather than any such ego into play, insofar as the lover is radically individualized and unsubstitutable." JLM

This is what bothered him so much. This is why he had to leave that room, that situation, that world. "I'm coming!" She said it. He expected it. He said it too. "Here I am!"--me, the one, the only one--the only me. I'm coming--I'm on my way--I will be there soon--so get ready.

Why do we announce this at the height of sexual frenzy? What is the sense of yelling it--announcing it--proclaiming it? Why does one feel the need to announce their own coming--their arrival on the scene? Their being given their there?

And, how exactly does that happen? How does cumming equal coming? How do I become me--unsubstitutably and irreplaceably--through the coming of cumming?

"At the moment of loving, the lover can only believe what he or she says and does under a certain aspect of eternity. Or, more exactly, under an instantaneous eternity . . ."

That's it, isn't it? This instantaneous--even if only momentary--eternity. This is the key to the equation of cumming with coming. That moment or cluster of non-moments that signify me are wrapped up in a temporary eternity that is outside of or beyond time, language, and the world. In that momentous eternity I am transported out of me--into a non-place--a non-world--a nowhere--that somehow results in my arrival--my-self entering the scene. This makes no sense. But I don't think it is supposed to.

"Orgasm, the only miracle that the poorest human condition can definitely experience--for it requires neither talent, nor apprenticeship, but simply a bit of naturalness--nevertheless leaves nothing to see, nothing to say, and carries away everything with it, even its memory."

In one sense, maybe it is a miracle. Anything that can suspend me and thus give me me at the same time seems to fit the mode of miracle. In this way, the comparisons to the experience of mystical union with the divine, or even the revelation of the hidden-God so popular in 20th century Christian theology are not hard to make. After all, it is an experience of nothing that leaves nothing and effects nothing. It is nothing and everything all at the same time.

And, it always leaves me wanting more--I want more of me to arrive, I guess. I want to yell-scream--proclaim--my coming through cumming every chance I get. Is that right? Is that what is happening?

"Orgasm is not a summit, from which one would descend in stages; it resembles a cliff that opens onto a void, where one falls all at once."

Well, this is certainly up for debate. Certainly it is not a uniform experience across ages, genders, cultures, etc. But, despite the clumsy overreaching, there is something essential here--this arrival of me--the "Here I am!" of orgasm is indeed a summit--a summit like all human summits. It signals the end of a descent--the end of a journey that involves climbing, obstacles, thirst, sweat, and maybe even tears--but like all human summits, going up includes coming down. This experience--this experience of me--is only a temporary eternity. Its instantaneity signals its temporality. Me is only temporary.

"If eroticization were to last without end, it would suspend the world, its time and its space--the erotic reduction would thus tear me definitively from the world."

Here it is--the tragic truth of the me situation. I can only come temporarily. I don't last forever. And, if I were too last forever I would be torn definitively from the world that gives me the possibility of me being me at all.

That's right, I would be dead.

Death and desire always go together. Love and annihilation are not enemies, nor even distant relatives. They are always closer than we think.

And, this is why he had to leave.

If one is going to arrive--to come--to come to the world by leaving it--to experience their own-self, even if temporarily, can and should it happen amidst the neon glow of a mechanical, technologized, and pornographic domain? And, more than that, should it happen in a time--in an interaction between one's-self and an-other--that carries no burden of expectation--no hope that something unexpected, something new, something totally out of the question might happen?

"Tonight could be the best night of our lives." BO

Cliche? Of course. To be taken in jest? Always. But, if it couldn't--if you tell me it isn't possible--or that I shouldn't hope for it--or "tonight definitely not"--well, then, I don't want to play. I don't want to play and I certainly won't come.

"It's like an earthquake."
-Marquez

"In essence the domain of eroticism is the domain of violence, of violation."
-Bataille


Like an earthquake? Yes. In what way? In that earthquakes are naturally violent. If we were discussing the problem of evil, we would discuss the natural violence of earthquakes and other facts of existence--violent events that cannot be traced to a culpable individual, but instead are chalked up to a fact of the existence into which all of us have been thrown (created), and thus which we share.

It's natural. It is not a violence one needs to remedy, much less to attempt to prevent. It is natural--it is not about blame, or guilt. It is about something more fundamental--something more prim(ordi)al.

It is about the violence of birth and death; of emerging from the nothing of Nothing into the singular existence that is discontinuous with all else. From being Nothing, or Non-Being, to Being in a way that one is separate from all else and aware of this fact. It is a violence of emerging and returning.

"existence itself is at stake in the transition from discontinuity to continuity. Only violence can bring everything to a state of flux in this way, only violence and the nameless disquiet bound up with it."

The nameless disquiet: Yes. Violence is bound up originally here. Violence is a matter of the inborn desire--the one from birth to death--to become one once again with the One--with the Nameless Quiet. Violence is being thrown from it--and returning to it.

"We cannot imagine the transition from one state to another one basically unlike it without picturing the violence done to the being called into existence through discontinuity. Not only do we find in the uneasy transitions of organisms engaged in reproduction the same basic violence which in physical eroticism leaves us gasping, but we also catch the inner meaning of that violence."

We usually do not think of violence having meaning. Natural disasters, physical violence, attack, hurt, spite, malice--these words are supposed to have definitions, but not meaning. Where does meaning come to violence?

Violence does not have a meaning; violence is the key to the possibility for meaning at all--the condition of its existence. To exist is to exist as a discontinuity resulting from violence--one that will return to the continuity of all through violence.

What does eroticism have to do here? It should come as no surprise that the erotic is a matter of violence--not only in its reproductive result, but also in the structure of the desire that propels it.

"The whole business of eroticism is to strike to the inmost core of the living being, so that the heart stands still. The transition from the normal state to that of erotic desire presupposes a partial dissolution of the person as he exists in the realm of discontinuity."

Just for a moment--even a second--my heart stands still in, within you. My discontinuity, as expressed and existent in my consciousness, my discursive thought, my sense of the temporal conditions governing existence, is suspended--is melted into the continuity of that Nameless Disquiet beyond language, beyond time, beyond the separation of me--or anything else--from Itself.

This is violence at its core. This is violation of me--myself--at the heart of who I am. This is a violent rupture of me in order to return me to the Nothing from which I came, for which I long, and to which I will return.

"The whole business of eroticism is to destroy the self-contained character of the participators as they are in their normal lives."

Normal life is a matter of discontinuity, of isolation, of singularity. We long for an encounter with unity, with union, with quiet that suspends all of that. But, we long for it while ceasing to give up on the dream--the phantom--of our discontinuity. We long for a continuity that does not mean annihilation.

"Hence love spells suffering for us in so far as it is a quest for the impossible . . ."

“We perceive that for the purposes of discharge the instinct of destruction is habitually brought into the service of Eros”-- SF


They had met at the bar the day before. She was called Haley, and had only been in town a couple of nights. Some loose mutual friends had somehow introduced them at the hotel mixer, and that had led to cocktails, surface-level conversation, more cocktails, a walk on the beach, some sloppy kissing by the firepit, and even more sloppy kissing as they said goodbye a few moments later. All in all, nothing extraordinary for a pair of young travelers spending the summer moving from town to town, place to place, location to location. There is something about transient living that gives one permission to have transient, fleeting relationships without the pings of conscience ruining it. Something in the brain tells the traveler not to worry about the one night stand, the threesome in the jacuzzi, or the fellatio with someone whose name was forgotten the moment they said it. People that would never even meet, much less end up stuck together awkwardly in a hammock at 3am, are thrust together on a nightly basis when traveling. That is how it works.

He knocked on her hotel room door. As he waited the requisite time for her to answer, there was no chilling anticipation coursing through is veins, or even a sense of urgency as regards to what might happen that evening. He had a pretty good outline of how things would and were supposed to go: They would walk downstairs to the beachside cafe for a quick, cheap, but ambient dinner. Afterwards, they'd walk a bit along the boardwalk, find a place for drinks, and take shots on and off for an hour so. At that point, they would be sufficiently lubricated to meander home for a meaningless encounter--or at least an attempt at an encounter that would later be deemed meaningless. Encounters--or attempts at them--cannot be deemed meaningless in the moment, otherwise they would never take place. In the moment, they are the most important and irresistible events in one's world; in fact, they are a chance to escape the world to hide in another. The paradox is that sometimes these events--attempted encounters--must for the sake of sanity, conscience, and self-worth--be deemed meaningless.

And, this evening went according to detail. Haley looked good in her tank top and shorts--she wasn't a stunner, but she was attractive. There was nothing particularly unique about they way she looked, moved, or spoke. But, she was attractive. They ate. They drank. They made it back to her room around 11 and quickly began to go at it. Just like everything else, there was nothing particularly special about the way Haley fucked. It went off without a hitch--everything worked how it was supposed to--each lever, when pushed or pulled, responded properly; each button, when pushed or twisted according to design, led to the effects desired. There were a few positions employed, and some mild dirty talk. He got on top of her. She got on top of him. She bent over. Etc. etc. Finally, Haley was on top, bouncing somewhat rapidly, and sweating just a little. Her dyed blonde hair fluttered above her head--her eyes were closed--and her hands on his knees below her. He lay there with Haley--this woman--on top of him, gyrating herself into a perceived frenzy.

Soon, Haley began to scream, "I'm coming. I'm coming. Oh god baby, come with me."

And, just as the rest of the evening, everything went according to plan. Haley came, or pretended to, and he came (without pretending) at the same time. The seconds following were a mild blur--there was no thinking, and no words. There was only the Nothing of orgasm. But, it only lasted a few seconds.

Afterwards, he was disgusted and angry. Haley lay next to him, breathing heavy and talking softly. He wanted nothing to do with it; with her. He promptly got up, put on his clothes, said goodbye and left.

As he walked down the hotel corridor he realized that he had never treated a woman like this before. He had been with a decent amount of women, and never had the impulse to simply get up and leave so abruptly--so rudely--after sex; especially the first time.

Why?

In the days that passed--days filled with train rides, bus rides, more hotels, and more cocktails--he realized it was about coming--about himself.

. . . The HYP and the Englisman stood up and headed to the dance floor with the other three women. I didn't want to dance, but I took the opportunity to escape the awkwardness and jumped out of my seat to join them. Before we made it to the dance floor all 6 of us did two shots of expensive silver tequila, and ordered a round of bottles. The dance floor was a sweaty, loud mess. Tonya decided she liked me however, and almost immediately began backing herself up into my crotch. It was an exquisite bit of human movement—me standing there with a bottle in one hand, and an inebriated woman backing herself into my denim-covered member. I looked around and saw a myriad of others doing something very similar. I should have just stopped thinking, and let myself feel. I should have just let myself feel the sensations of the beer going down my throat and the woman dry humping me into submission. But, I didn't. Instead, I tried to think in between thrusts:
Is this how souls meet?
Or, have we destroyed our souls—scattered even the faint whisper of them—so thoroughly that the only way we can attempt to have an encounter—much less to have one--automatically involves two crotches, sweat, and overpriced alcohol?

Again, I was depressed and excited all at the same time. I didn't have control of either—the depression or the excitement. Naturally, I couldn't control the depression. And, due to Amber grinding into my missile, I couldn't control the excitement. We continued “dancing” through the night. We laughed. We drank.
About a half hour in I whispered into her ear: “You know Amber, ramming a missile can be dangerous. You might end up with an explosion.” Smooth.

She smiled and I realized she didn't hear a word I said over the music. So, we continued without a change.

The Englishman pulled the month and left early with her. The HYP and I stayed with the other two until the sweaty hideaway was lit up into a glimmering, odorous cellar. In an instant the dreams evaporated. In a moment the pretending faded and it was time to saunter home and look forward to the headache that would plague the next day. We gathered our things, exchanged phone numbers with the girls, and walked home. The boardwalk was empty except for bottles, cigarrete butts, and food wrappers. I heard people yelling. I heard woman screaming. I walked past the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop and saw someone urinating on the wall. I walked slowly because of the inebriation, but not slow enough to think. Why did the thinking stop now? At home, I tore off my clothes, took two headache pills, and collapsed onto the bed.

We ordered drinks from a curvy, but somehow unattractive blonde behind the green countertop and then found a seat in a maroon vinyl booth in the corner. The lights were set down real low, and there was an artificial mist hovering in the air. On the dance floor in front of us there were people dancing as if they were having the best time. I could smell and feel the congealed mixture of sweat, perfume, and hairspray. People in these situations always seem so happy. I wondered if I was lacking the ability to hear certain frequencies. Maybe I couldn't here the happy-inducing frequency they broadcast in nightclubs. Maybe I was missing out on this late-night bliss due to a physiological defect. Who knows. Others sat at the bar and tried to get to know one another over the deafening music blaring through the speakers. Some, all men, sat bobbing their heads to the music on the outskirts of the dance floor with a beer in one hand and the other in their pocket.
“Mate, there are some birds here, mate, serious birds. Let's go dance, come on!”
The Englishman had had more than a few and was now apparently excited to exercise his freedom. I knew the two of them. They would head to the dance floor, look at a lot of women, try to get the courage to go over to them, and then come back to the booth with more drinks. But, I couldn't blame them. He was free, after all. The academic looked at him, “Should we go?”
He was sniffing his index finger and when he finished he extended it straight out. I don't think he even realized he was doing it.
“Let's go.”
The academic and the Englishman went on the floor, while the HYP and me stayed behind. I didn't want to talk, especially over the happy-inducing noise I apparently could not hear correctly.
I sat in as deep of thought as you can in a place like that. I watched people move, meet, and smile. I watched a couple kiss sloppily on one corner of the dance floor. She was wearing a red halter top and very tight jeans, along with the shiniest black shoes I have ever seen. His striped pink button-up was now one button undone too many and his hair was not in the pristine condition it probably had once been in only a few hours earlier.
Is this what they came for?
Is this why we came?
Is this why I came?
What would be considered success in this situation?
Would they kiss like this and then say goodbye?
Would success be a phone number?
Maybe the would go back to someone's “home” and continue this interaction? Maybe success would be getting lucky? Is this why they came—did they come to cum? Would cumming equal success? How much is $100 really worth? As I continued to watch them it almost seemed like they grew further and further apart—they were moving away from each other but were always within reach. There limbs stretched into elongated masses, clinging to one another as their disproportionately small bodies and heads moved further and further from each other. The closer they tried to get to one another—the more voracious their passion became—the larger the separation was between them. I didn't know how they were still keeping contact. Finally, their deformed bodies overlapped at only one harried location and it seemed to take all of their strength to not let go.
“Stop staring, man” The HYP smirked, looking like he wanted to converse. I looked up to respond, but my housemates returned with more bottles of cold liquid.
“Fuckin birds, mate, I dance with a couple, make eyes at some—but what am I supposed to say?”
“I might go home and do some work,” the academic, discouraged and disheveled, was ready to call it a night.
After a bit, I went to the bathroom while the boys went to get more bottles. I didn't piss on my belt or anything, but I did flush the toilet with my foot. It didn't seem like something I wanted to touch with my bare hands. When I returned the HYP was talking to two girls at the table next to us: one incrediby petite blond with huge diamond earings and a squeaky voice, and a taller, slender brunette with dark jeans and a black top that didn't hide much. “This is January, like the month, and Tonya. Girls, this is my friend.”
“Hi,” I said with a forced smile. Just then the boys returned with the liquid and were also introduced to the month and Tonya.
“So, what's the deal? Are you going to join us or not?” The professor asked. Despite his disturbing views of women and sex, his confidence was admirable. Where did it come from? How did he believe in himself—his reason—so easily? Maybe he didn't have an abyss, I thought. Maybe I am missing the part that allows you to hear the happy frequency and he is lacking an abyss. I wasn't sure I wanted either.

“Sure we will. Let us go find our friends and we'll be right back.”
“Don't be long,” he shot back with a smile on his face.
“Mate, we are in there. Nice. Nice going. What did you say? Mate, don't know how you do it.”
The Englishman couldn't hide his excitement, and even the academic looked optimistic.