Sex as Suicide

“Drunkenness … is temporary suicide.”
– Bertrand Russell

Of all the vices, I cannot think of one which is more violent than: sex – the perversion of sexuality.

Sex is ubiquitous. The addict, the afflicted, is hopeless in concocting an escape route. For to flee from the reigns of sexuality is to evade life.

Tits, asses, cunts and cocks: they’re everywhere. They are everything. They are the symbols of life and death and progress and ancestry and mortality and they are what breeds life itself.

Of all addicts, those afflicted by their sexuality and others’ is the trickiest. The strangest. Because,

For the addict: sexuality is not the drug. Life, and the loss of life therein, is.


Sex is one of the most violent of addictions because the taking of human life is the most violent act.

Remember: serial killers and other murderers have long incorporated sexual acts with their assaults.

Remember: acts of sexuality – sometimes as they are particularly yoked with love – can lead one to personal death: suicide.

Where Russell found temporary suicide in drunkenness, I have found my moments of suicide in sex.

Sex… is temporary suicide.

Even in my darkest hours: sex has been a violent reconquering of my own life. A reinvigoration. A reprise. A taste of what falling apart at the seams really feels like.

Alas, the most exhilarating of all drug cocktails to violently course through me: Where there is sex, there is death.


On the surface, sexuality is not something uncommon. It is not a prize, a blue ribbon – an anomaly. Really, what has been conquered is not anything to brag about: it is an impulse. A compulsion. Dogs do it. Chimps do it well, and often.

On the surface, sexuality is our base. Primal. It’s what our internal mechanism is here to do: spread the seed. Propagate the gene. Lengthen the line. Fold toward the future.

Under the surface, in that place where the nerves itch below the skin, sexuality is one of the most titillating endeavors to engage in. What’s more? Intoxicating it is. Pushed even further: Paralyzing. Deathly.

Sexuality is the greatest of all drugs because: it is free. For awhile…


“If I commit suicide, it will not be to destroy myself but to put myself back together again. Suicide will be for me only one means of violently reconquering myself, of brutally invading my being, of anticipating the unpredictable approaches of God. By suicide, I reintroduce my design in nature; I shall for the first time give things the shape of my will.”
– Antonin Artaud

If you go up too high, you come crashing down low. Every addict knows this. The opposite of pure ecstasy is destruction. Nay, annihilation.

Annihilation of what? The self. The one entity we all believe we “have”. On the most desolate, broken and homeless streets – even then we don’t need any money to own this idea of “self”.

In all, that rush, that push, that pull of sex – is escape. Like heroin, cocaine, alcohol – this adventure is about the loss of self. For just as a heroin high enables the user the ability to disappear from the day, so too does sex enable the junkie to retract from ultimate responsibility. Presence. Life.

Implicit in the act of sex – in its wailing arms and pounding torsos and eyes rolled back into the head – is the picture of: pure, acceptable violence. Sex is violent. Not always – but it can be.

And like the addict of other substances, the violence need not affect anybody else – sexuality’s violence can be silent. Masochistic. Sexuality in this form can be that kind of annihilation of the object we all value more than anything else: our “self”.

To this end: maybe the perversion of sexuality is a safe manner of suicide. A non-lethal destruction. A way to crash, to fall, to leap, to die – if even just for a minute. Just maybe, sex is a kind of reanimation of the self that keeps that glass floor from giving way.

Maybe sex is as close as we come to death in this life.

~ by The Provocateur on March 25, 2011.

3 Responses to “Sex as Suicide”

  1. Welcome back. I have missed your writing. 🙂

  2. I have held hope that you would write again.

    la petite mort, “little death” in a French climax, but maybe not so small.

    Life affirming, or life denying?

    Creation? (or procreation–there is that), or distraction? Or destruction?

    It all depends.

  3. If you’ve never read Bataille, you should.

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