Sheila canceled a date with me, intuiting that I wasn’t likely to bring my A-game. Lexy and I have fallen out, largely out of my neglect. I have half a dozen e-mails sitting in my inbox, unreturned. I don’t have the energy or the attention to turn to them. It’s not that there’s anything wrong: there isn’t.
My life is good right now. Busy. Full. But sex, honestly, just isn’t a part of it. Certainly not “N” sex, the sex N. has and writes about here. But honestly, not really any sex at all.
This happens, of course, from time to time. Sex, like everything else, ebbs and flows. But I’m struck by how long it’s been, and how deep the rut runs. Part of it is Trump, to be sure. Though I’m fortunate enough not to be in any of the categories of people he’s harming, I am struck by how enervating it is simply to live under him, to bear witness to his assault on truth and decency, day after day.
I am one of those who, as a child, suffered a systematic evisceration of the concept of truth. Trump re-traumatizes me and those who, like me, saw manifest truth denied as children. (Incidentally, or maybe more than incidentally, I often wonder how my child will relate to this as he grows older.) So anyway – Trump Trauma afflicts me. For realz. It’s a thing. It’s not the only thing, but it is a real thing. I find myself reading compulsively, listening to podcasts compulsively, desperately trying to reassure myself that my perspective, my perceptions, is, are, real. And that consumes an enormous amount of energy.
So that’s Trump.
But there’s more.
My cock, lately, just isn’t hard. I’ve been looking at more porn than usual lately. I’ve written about this before: porn isn’t what I do when I’m horny. It’s what I do when I’m not horny.
And I’ve noticed something else: I’m not even that interested in hot woman. Hotness isn’t enough for me. I want compliance. And not just compliance. Perfect, perfect, attunement. I need to write about this at some point, but now’s not that point: it’s not enough to do as I ask. I often crave anticipating my desires, not just fulfilling them. And at the moment? It’s especially acute.
It’s as if my desire is somehow fragile, ready to be extinguished by the slightest failing. I was flirting with a woman via text the other day, and I’ve seen myself pull away from her. Why? She didn’t, honestly, do anything wrong. But she said a couple of things, she interacted in a couple of teeny-tiny ways that indicated… well, to be honest, that indicated she is a separate human, someone who’s not me. And this was enough to send me sideways.
Separateness, in my current configuration, is simply wildly unappealing.