I've spent quite a few hours thinking about this particular aspect of a thorough 'sex with the dead' policy and I've come to the conclusion that I just don't have it in me to flesh it out the way it should be done. Something about calmly and coolly explaining the difficulty one must necessarily face when confronted with the ethical dilemna that attends sex with a girlfriend, wife, or homeless chick in a persistent vegetative state makes this topic a non-starter.
I thought, at first, that it was just residual guilt from all the Terri Schiavo jokes I've heard and retold over the last year, but it really wasn't. I think it's more that I don't want to be responsible for formulating a complete and logical set of policies that sanction humping the shit out of drooling, lifeless masses of brain-dead hotness.
I was talking to a friend of mine about this at a bar the other day and he said,
"I saw pictures of Schiavo before she turned into a bucket of Jell-O and she was pretty hot. I think if I got drunk enough and closed my eyes I could hit it and actually finish. The only problem I have is that I think I'd lose my hard-on if I rubbed up against her feeding tube."
I thought about it for a minute and instead of condemning the entire conversation, all I could think to say was "well that certainly brings new meaning to the word 'tubesteak.'" I'm pretty sure it was then that I knew I would not be able to write convincingly about the propriety of sex with vegetables. I mean, I'm used to vacant stares from women during coitus, but it's usually either from boredom or years of systematic sexual abuse perpetrated by close male relatives. It's never because they're medically brain-dead...I think.
Maybe I'll be able to muster up the courage at some point in the future. For now, I suppose it must remain the province of our collective wistful imagination, much like the possibility of quality primetime television or the equality of the sexes.
Posted by nils at 10:31 PM