On not writing

Some years ago, all of my manic energy went into commercial sex. Then, it shifted, and found its way to writing, and in particular, to writing here.

In recent months, even years, my mania has found new targets, new realms. I’m no less dependent on mania – activity to avoid feeling, is how I think of it – but it’s led to far less content here. And, to far less sex of the sort I might write about here.

Maybe partly this is age (I’m older now than I was in 2011, when I started this project). But mostly I think it’s something more like progress. Increasingly, I distract myself with activities that are useful, not just to me, but to others.

Other factors contribute, of course: Trump, as I’ve written, is a giant turn-off. (Last night I dreamt I confronted him, called him racist, at a campaign event, and that led to an unsatisfying but lengthy one-on-one conversation about his racism. Oddly, the conversation took place in a tiny, ornate ecclesiastical anteroom. Just a few years ago, I would have filled that dream space with legions of women, sucking my cock. Today, it’s me and our authoritarian embarrassment of a Leader in a church.)

And my readers’ engagement: years ago, readers commented, I replied, we went back and forth. You made me think, I made you think, and we traded ideas back and forth. More recently, the extent of reader engagement has been prudish, not particularly psychologically minded people calling me names. And loyal readers defending me. I’m grateful for the defenses I receive, even as I don’t find myself particularly interested in the criticisms of readers who see the world through lenses radically different from mine.

There’s “me too,” too. I confess to being less and less sure-footed when it comes to public demonstrations of objectification and dominance. I have no doubt about where I stand, politically, personally, sexually. I feel no shame about my feelings, thoughts, or actions. But I just don’t know how to think about how what I’ve written, what I write, affects those who don’t find it compelling, whom it doesn’t arouse. In the past, I would have written, here, about this confusion. Recently, I’ve been writing other stuff, elsewhere, about other things I don’t know.

And finally, there’s the question of inspiration. Over the years, I’ve been lucky to be inspired – literally, to be brought to life, to be given breath – by a small number of truly excellent women, women whose beauty, intelligence, and submission meshed nearly perfectly with my hunger. And my hunger and their inspiration exponentiated in a virtuous circle. Maybe “virtuous” isn’t quite right; certainly some of my recent commenters wouldn’t see it that way. In any event, in recent days (months, years) that inspiration has been lacking. (In French, when you miss something, you don’t say “I miss it.” You say “I miss myself of it,” or “I lack myself of it.” This feels apt.)

I’m not exactly apologizing. Rather I’m updating you.

Through it all, I must say, I’m doing pretty well (for those of you who’ve been asking).

For those of you who celebrate it, happy Thanksgiving.

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