LUST |
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Noy Thrupkaew was a Fall 2003 fellow in the Pew International Journalism Program at Hopkins' Nitze School of Advanced International Studies. She is senior correspondent for The American Prospect. |
One syllable, one breath — such a humble word for the
force that can topple princes and presidents, sweep away
reason and morality. And such an apt one — its
brevity fits the fleeting quality of its pleasures, as does
the moan at its center. The true lingua franca of lust is,
after all, nearly wordless: a cacophony of grunts, groans,
cries, and the demented, sawing music of bedsprings. Like
the act the word can lead to, writing of lust seems an
exercise both ridiculous and sublime — how to capture
through intangible words the earthiness of lust, or its
raptures, which seem to transcend language? Yes, its raptures. Unlike love, its beatific bedfellow, lust has gotten a bad rap. It bays through the fields of our minds and bodies, say its critics — and in search of what? A brief and sweaty glory, a few twitching minutes of respite before it takes off again, a slavering hunter of desire. It leers with wet-eyed covetousness, instead of the generosity of love. It piddles upon the sanctity of human and divine institutions. It is a creature of the dark — footsie under the table, kissing in the corners — a misshapen Caliban that whispers that perhaps humans are nothing beyond the biological, the animal, that in the beginning there was indeed the word, but that word was lust. There is certainly something to these arguments against lust. This call of the wild id has spawned the plastic, booboisie charms of Penthouse and Playboy, the panting e-mail spam, the rumpled clothing of the adulterer. It can be wild and disruptive, a dirty telegram delivered at an inopportune moment — bursting into the mind, thong-clad and waggling its wares, while one is speaking to a kindly rabbi perhaps, or in the midst of a Haydn recital. It has no compunction about making fools of its victims, replacing coherent thoughts with rolling eyes and galloping hormones. It can undo clothing — and entire lives.
And yet, without lust, where would we be? Quite possibly,
nowhere at all — perhaps neither you nor I would be
here to read or to write this piece. That is part of lust's
power, the paradox at its heart — its pleasures can
be brutishly short, the consequences or rewards a whole
life long. Lust can produce a literal extension of oneself
in the form of children, or can help build a metaphoric
continuation — a narrative that includes more than
just one solitary soul. But somehow, it seems to know
nothing of its power, its potential for good or for ill. It
exists only in the moment, jumpy, licking its chops,
focused on one elemental urge. In its single-mindedness, in
its pure, unadulterated focus, I would argue, lust is
innocent. Lust can lead to darkness — the desire to objectify, dehumanize. If acted upon thoughtlessly or cruelly, it can urge us to use others as passive tools for our satisfaction, deny them their own thoughts and desires and choices, treat them as commodities to be bought and sold, disposable and interchangeable as Kleenex. Rape is the nadir — an attempt to use sex to extinguish another. These actions are grotesque frotteurism, backhanded responses to the fear lust can inspire. For lust is fearsome. Lust is sexual want — want with the force of need. How frightening to desire another with such intensity! When one lusts, thoughts of another have entered one's mind and body — the integrity of the self has been breached by alien images. Like the act it pants after, lust can erode boundaries, which raises its own quandaries or joys: at one extreme, fears of engulfment, loss of control, possession . . . or at the other, the potential for communion, grace, transcendence of the decay inherent in the bodily form. So how does one choose to address those lust-fueled fears — by endeavoring to consume, control, or possess the person who sparked such turmoil? Or by opening oneself to the uncertainty — the potential for rejection, pain, indifference, or fulfillment — that comes with recognizing another's desires and will?
Maybe this defense of lust feels like the brimstone-free
feel-goodery of a secularist. But let me put it this way.
Lust is merely a messenger, proferring that dirty telegram.
The question of what we make of that message is our own
burden — don't kill the messenger, as the old adage
warns. We should thank lust, instead. It forces the
exercise of choice, of God's free will. How do we interpret
this baffling missive from the deep, told in flashes and
cries? How, indeed, should we act? |
Lust in proper proportions — enough to lend zing, not too much to give mental or moral indigestion — can offer a profound appreciation of another's particularity. It's a yearning to touch another's body — the place where a person actually lives. So sit with lust in its suchness. It has a whole lifetime in it, an entire dance. The blossoming of promise, a defiance of death, one sown with seeds of its own decay. Once we regard lust without needing to deem it naughty or nice, we can see its potency. |
Trying to find the middle path of lust, poised between
purse-lipped prudery and prurience, may offer some clarity.
All the so-called sins, in moderate amounts, can lend much
to life. But too much, and sloth slouches sleepy and
three-toed, gluttony bloats, greed turns reptilian,
sideways-looking envy walks into an open manhole and breaks
its nose, wrath grows apoplectic, pride puffs up. Lust
leaps onto our backs at the office party, rides us,
screaming, "Who's your daddy?" Too little, and you get the
Seven Dysfunctional Dwarves: Twitchy, Scrawny, Lazy, Smug,
Wimpy, Who? and Blah. Lust in proper proportions — enough to lend zing, not too much to give mental or moral indigestion — can offer a profound appreciation of another's particularity. It's a yearning to touch another's body — the place where a person actually lives. No objectification, this, to admire the way someone turns a cup of tea, a fondness for Alexander Pope, long and unexpectedly straight eyelashes, the wide and tender curve of the upper lip — all the gestures and forms that make up the mysterious alchemy of one singular beauty. So sit with lust in its suchness. It has a whole lifetime in it, an entire dance. The blossoming of promise, a defiance of death, one sown with seeds of its own decay. Once we regard lust without needing to deem it naughty or nice, we can see its potency. Lust doesn't become neutered when we bypass this binary — rather, it becomes more challenging, as lust has within it all that is possible. It sharpens the dilemma before us: How can I harmonize my interior desires and my sense of morality? How can I do that with those of another? Can one be an ethical slut? A vengeful virgin? When should lust be embraced, or regarded calmly and then let go? Why do I lust for the impossible, the improbable? How do I balance my desire for mad entanglement with another, our bodies thrown down in impossible constellations, with the struggle to act with clarity, consideration, and courage? A life without lust would deny us these fundamental struggles — and worse. Lucite-heeled stilettos and assless pants would clog the bins at the neighborhood Marshall's. Porn directors would start making vile experimental films with former starlets. Office firewalls would block Martha Stewart's Web site; we'd shuffle in and out of bars, clubs, and twin beds with the bored politeness of those at a little known relative's funeral. Bereft of its libidinous undertow, human existence would be unforgivably beige, clad in shapeless bloomers (unless one finds bloomers sexy, of course). Life wouldn't be life anymore . . . we would have lost our lust for it. That lusterless world would certainly snuff out this piece — and anything else that requires at least the occasional crackle of inspiration to fuel its slog. Yes, lust inhabits even this dull plod at the keyboard, the desire to touch, weave a seduction, a communal space in words that both writer and reader can inhabit. That the incarnation of thoughts — this body of text — could mingle with the thoughts of another, take root . . . it's a sexy notion, and one presented with the earnest hope that it is as good for you as it is for me. Perhaps I've been sent packing with my little pack of pick-up lines, perhaps we are in full-on flirtation mode, I'm flipping my hair. You never know with lust — fiercely alive, messy, singing a mad song . . . you never know anything except its rewards can be so sweet, when it drags us out of ourselves, into the wilds of each other.
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