(WARNING: Contains spoilers on Netflix Original Marco Polo)
Above a rolling green plain through an azure sky, a falcon soared.
Thousands of feet beneath its tapered wings, cold steel ripped through flesh and bone, its pointed end glimmering red in the sunlight.
The Mongol lord pulled his slightly curved sword free from his brother’s chest. With both hands, he raised his Scimitar towards the Eternal Blue Sky and brought it down, removing head from body in a single, heavy stroke.
As his kin lay slain, lifeless fingers twitching against grass seeped with blood, he turned towards a wave of soldiers, declaring the end of the internal faction; declaring the Mongolian army as a cohesive whole.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. As the screen faded to black and the credits rolled, I shook my head in appreciation.
House of Cards, BoJack Horseman, and now Marco Polo. Netflix, if you had some sort of physical manifestation, I would make love to you so hard.
I thought of my mother, from whom I had inherited my love for science fiction, fantasy, and historical drama. She would love this, I considered, but hesitated, thinking of the heavy sexual content which I knew would nettle her.
My intoxicated mind turned towards something it had contemplated several times in sobriety: prevailing squeamishness with sex.
But it’s the most natural thing in the world – it’s literally how all species survive – and every single one of us is a product of the act.
I wondered if such common disdain stemmed somehow from the purpose of sex: of procreation. Maybe some people dislike the thought of it if it’s not done with at least the possibility of reproduction?
But it’s done with zero intention of begetting life like, all the time. And that’s the thing – it varies so vastly from person to person. For some, it was the ultimate sign of commitment: something to share with the single person they wanted to be with for their entire lives. For others, the expression of utmost affection, though it in no way guaranteed lifelong monogamy. And for some, it was little more exclusive than a handshake. If we all accepted that everyone interprets it differently, maybe it wouldn’t be such a big deal.
But, I thought on a separate note, maybe it’s the same combo of fascination and disdain at watching an eating contest? There’s something about watching unbridled indulgence, the consumption of so much more than’s needed for survival, that kinda makes you cringe.
Though not entirely satisfactory, I accepted the theory, and could not wait to share the violent and sexually explicit show with my mother.