I’ve gotta say it. After prowling around the other folks writing about werewolves in blogs and fiction these days, I’m getting the impression that all ANYBODY thinks about is SEX. Big fangs equals big you-know-what. Violence equals passion. Werewolf bitches running around naked under the moonlight. And so on . . .
Look, folks, I know that the modern mass-media is designed to fuel unrealistic sexual fantasies, leaving the audience in a continuous state of craving for unattainable desires. It’s a gimmick. It SELLS stuff. It’s a deliberate ploy, appealing to the most fundamental Lowest Common Denominator, activating instinctual drives and leaving them hanging, so that the advertiser can then come in and associate just about anything with the artificially-stimulated craving and elicit a Pavlovian response. What I don’t understand is why y’all fall for it. It’s transparent. The psychology has been known for eighty years. Surely you can recognize an elementary conditioning routine and TURN IT OFF? Along with the television set, which with the cost of cable has become another gratuitous tax on poverty. I recognize the craving for escape from a lifetime of running on treadmills to increase the profits of one’s Corporate Masters, but the last thing a captive population should be doing is ardently collaborating with their enslavers.
Now, I know this is the point where I’m supposed to launch into the flowery discourse on how “sex is wonderful, etc., etc., with a willing adult partner in the fulfillment of mutual affection, etc., etc.”. But I’m just going to skip it. Personally, I find sex BORING. I’ve been known to fantasize about home decorating or period costume design during intercourse. And I don’t write about it. Except for comic relief. Because it’s the prime example of how rational, intelligent beings stop everything and behave like utter idiots when their animal instincts are activated. Which is hilarious when the person behaving like an idiot is someone else.
Does this mean I don’t believe in love? Hardly. I just don’t happen to think it’s particularly dependent on sex or vice-versa. I’m very fond of family and friends, and I absolutely ADORE my cats. Maybe I’m fixated at an infantile stage in my psychological development, where the love of parents and siblings still dominates the nascent stirrings of the need to populate the earth with my genetic code. So I write about LOVE, not about ripping each other’s clothes off. And my werewolves spend a lot more time worrying about keeping their friends and family alive than procreation. Even where sex is the primary driver of a plot – and yes, Wolves DO have to mate, or there’d be no cubs and no Royal Succession – I keep it to a few titillating incidents. I mean, really, if you’re that interested in the specifics, I daresay you have enough imagination to cover them for yourselves. Personally, I haven’t the slightest interest in sex with large canines. My own totem is a lioness.
On the other hand, there WAS that fellow decked out as an absolutely purrrrrfect man-sized grey panther at a science-fiction convention thirty years ago . . .