There’s a lady I’m working with on Willy Wonka who sincerely thinks that, because I’m so open about my recreational sex life (and make a lot of sex jokes.), that deep down my general mentality is a cry for help and what I really want is a monogamous relationship. (Ignoring the obvious fact that my thirty-one years of life in this body should lend a little more weight to my perspective on the matter.) This attitude, to me, reeks of a kind of snobbery that bugs me almost to a cellular level, because she earnestly thinks her opinion on my life matters and that Christian marital conventions are preferable to my need for the occasional strange. (Which just ignores the fact that casual sex is fucking awesome, if you’ll pardon the pun.)

She can’t be dissuaded. Like many Christians I run into, she tends to be friendly on the outside, but underneath that personable veneer, she’s not really a nice person at all. (Merely tolerating my presence as one would tolerate an offensive smell.)

This situation is a microcosm for the religion as a whole. They’re right. You’re wrong, and they’ll gladly tell you about it… repeatedly, and as long as they can do so with anonymity or within a socially acceptable manner, they’ll vote and petition to make sure that your offensive lifestyle is held inferior and you’re made to be reminded often that what you do is wrong.

Thankfully for me, and the folks in my little black book, my libido is an unstoppable force of nature.