Jungle Fever

Primal, baby.

Why is it so wrong? You wanna make wagers on how many women lusted after our buddy Tarzan here in 1938? Oh, I think between him and Errol Flynn in Robin Hood, Fantasyland was fully booked for the last half of the Dirty Thirties. I’ll make you ululate, Tarzan, just watch me.

When I’m comfortable with a man and trust him, getting primal isn’t hard at all. But when I first get to know him, I have a hard time letting him see that side of me. It doesn’t really take long, just usually not the first time we have sex. It’s not that I don’t want to show that side to him, it’s just that I have concerns he’ll view me as only that kind of a lover, and that’s something I don’t want to see happen. Sigh.

It’s all so very dumb. It really is.

We’re warm-blooded, and some nights, downright hot-blooded. We’re animals. We’ve just forgotten how to behave like them.

On the African Savannah, on Antarctica, on any stretch of terrain anywhere in the world, animals are being called to their natural needs, copulating en masse, enacting species-specific mating rituals, and doing everything they can to climax. It’s the call of the wild, and we’re the only fucking species that ain’t answering it.

Our modern take on the call of the wild? A kiss, a grope, some humping on the couch, and some fumbling, and some wham-bam-thank you-ma’am. Unless, of course, you remember you’re an animal and that a heart pounds hard inside of you, then maybe, just maybe, you’ll try to break the kichen table.

Of course intimacy is incredibly important. Eye contact, deep kisses, endless caressing, it’s all very important, but so too is throwing down and fucking furiously on the living room floor, with or without the blinds closed.

Look around you. Look at the world around you. Look at the road rage. Look at the office rage. Look at all this bullshit where we see true rage and fury emitting from people, over the stupidest little most inconsequential thing.

We try to deceive ourselves by saying we live in a civilized society. We think the right Prada bag or the proper choice of vehicle will somehow elevate our status, and with it, quell the beasts that dwell within. It’s bullshit, of course. We’re not civilized. Watching any newscast will prove it. It's out there, it's on every street -- the animal within. But we fool ourselves well.

This time of year, though, it’s a little harder to make the primal sit down and behave. Know that little bit of weariness tempered with exuberance, the feistiness stirring within? That’s cabin fever. The awakening of all of us as the season progresses. Spring’s rising, and with it, so are our temperatures. Pheromones abound. Please do not feed the hormones.

We want to be good people. We want to respect others’ rights. We want to be gracious, caring, passionate, but there are too many people who feel there’s no way to balance being that with being a primal lover who growls, bites, scratches, and moans like they’re howling at the moon. And as crazy as it sounds, it’s absolutely possible to play both roles – on the same night, even.

Being that lover, though, is a hell of a lot better than going to therapy. Getting that need, that primal, down-n-dirty need out of your system does a hell of a lot of good for someone. Some people do it through S&M, with pain or humiliation being involved. All right, fine, not my bag, but that’s cool. Me, I’m one of the “put some tribal rhythms on and let’s go native, baby” type who’s into jungle-fever lovin'. It’s the one kind of sex that leaves absolutely satiated. Worn out, thankful, and thrilled, it’s the best experience I can have, some days. It’s not something I could do every time, but my god, I’m unlikely to pass it up, too.

I try to think of it, I try to understand, and I just can’t fathom it. What must it be like to be unable to admit to what lies in your heart, that you’re a primal beast? How do you tell yourself that vanilla is all you really want, that a little taste of something exotic doesn’t appeal? How can you kid yourself and pretend those dark places you know you have aren’t really there? What must it be like to force yourself to live a mundane, safe little life where you never, ever push the limits to see what you can or can’t do, or better yet, just how good all that pushing can feel?

You know, primal sex is the lover’s equivalent of extreme sports. If you haven’t bought your ticket to ride, well, you won’t believe the rush you’re missing.