Saturday, February 6, 2021

Do Christians Enjoy Sex?

Andy Answers
The biggest lie Satan ever convinced us of was that he doesn’t exist. The biggest lie the atheist establishment ever sold was that us Christians don’t enjoy sex. But I’m here to convince you outside of The Word, it’s the thing we most enjoy. They call me square, and sure, as a cisgender male I prefer hetero-normative sexual behavior, raw-dogging only one female-born woman per marriage. This does not however mean, just because Christians are known for the rigorous missionary work, that our entire sexual realms are spent in the missionary position (though equally rigorous).

After a troubled youth, I graduated from youth group to youth group leader. It’s there I met ...let’s call her Claudette. For once, the tables were turned and I changed myself by vowing to change others in positions before me. After weeks in apprehensive silence, Claude confided to the group a most dark affliction, her desires and actions of a nymphomatic nature. The group gasped and groaned in horror. After the meet, I made it my specific duty to help her with this terrible illness. I took her aside and said, “Claudette, I know about your incredible lust and I personally am going to help you through this, day-by-day, inch-by-inch, minute-by-minute, I will be by your bedside. Or kitchen-side, or public park-side, or reststop-side.” She was a lovely lady only 17 years my junior, meaning that when I could be legally charged as an adult in my state, she was nothing more than a single spermatozoa creating the glint in her father’s eye. We decided to wed that very evening, vowing our love for each-other, and vowing change. A quick 26-hour round-trip road trip to Vegas later, we were spiritually and legally safe to copulate before the eyes of the lord.

But even before marriage, certain biological urges do persist. Claudette, before our engagement, was a prolific wearer of pants presumably from India known as “Yoga.” This is why we save ourselves for marriage. The first time I saw her butt, with the curvature not unlike the moon scenes in Kubrick’s 2001, I knew I had to be the First Man on it. I had to plant my stake in it. I had to go over the event horizon in through the blackhole and contemplate god’s grace enveloped in her specific clock in spacetime. And lost in the infinite blackless, of space and of its fabric, of those uber-black pants, I had this compulsion to make Space Jam. Her magnetism held great gravitational pull. There it stayed, ever-ready for a wormhole. Is that not how the Starchild is born? This great desire, burning, yearning, bubbling in the loins, ready to expel its baby-creation elixir like a white snowfall. Through divinity it melts hot unlike snow, and through the friction of passion, vaginal villages burn in embers as if lit by vicious vikings. It is no sin to consummate our marriage as such, forcefully love-making and pillaging the city of gold inside your wedded servant.

Yes, I am Christian. But if I am cut, do I not bleed? If I see butt, does not blood coagulate inside my pelvic hose as if it were bitten by the most potent venom of the deadliest rattlesnake? I was bitten, smitten with ordinary lust. All the repression, saving yourself for marriage. It’s there for a reason. Like a slingshot, you are spring-loaded, even literally, for the fateful night marked as ‘wedding day,’ marred by deep-seated psychological scars. Heathens, what they see in others is simply base sexual properties. Me, I have pure desire, I want to stare at a butt, disrobe it, photograph it, videograph it from every angle finally putting those geometry classes to use, inside and out, I want to view a livestream of a colonoscopy and feast my eyes on its rectal character similar to creatures and locations in Dune. I yearn to view firsthand with macro-mode photography and microscopic view the dreamscapes of porous hills with Claudette’s tiny blonde hairs enlarged and looking like the radiating waves of light emanating from the most saintly portraits of La Virgen de Guadalupe. Beads of sweat cover these dual moons, there as wet proof there is indeed life on Mars. I want to make my way to the crescent valley, the fireswamp of a darkness so deep you can see the stars of the night sky from there - even during the day. These are the images you get in a single instance in a moment of abstract sexual thought, when you have desires fully realized as they’re meant to be, not spoiled and gluing you to your bedsheets after your sixth consecutive Ariana Grande music video (Thank U, Next).

Women are not meant to be objectified. The ideal number of partners is one, or un-ideally for widowers, two. Only disgusting pigs need to bed several woman on Tinder like a meat market, those spoiled, past-due bratwursts disguised with spices of cheap perfume and Louis Vitton cellphone cases few straight men can resist. But resist we must, we salvage an eternity in the process. We are not womanizers like Christian Bale because never would a Christian Bail. Women were not meant to be passed around like buffet tongs. They were meant to be played like classical music, works of art, like a tuba, mouth on the bottom-hole and out comes the melancholic exasperation of ecstasy through the top hole. That’s love. That’s respect. Helping your wife put on her underwear after you make her temporarily unable to walk. That’s love. Making 69 Shades of Grey, because your home video project doesn’t need approval from E. L. James, and as long as there’s consent, you can have subject matter that would make Marquis De Sade blush. That’s respect.

Square Andy is a Christian, journalist, and recently unemployed

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