I find myself with some minutes to spare – a window between obligation A and obligation B. I have lots of work I could, should do, of course. But none of it is so pressing that it must be done now. I’m not currently in the midst of a torrid exchange with anyone. Sofia and I have been corresponding, and it’s been hot, but it’s not at the pace it sometimes is, and, in any event, I’m hungering for touch. As stimulating as her remote compliance and beauty are, it’s hands and maybe a mouth that my cock wants right now.
I know, from my years of experience, that with a phone call, and an expenditure, I can conjure an hour’s worth of devoted attention to my cock. I can have a beautiful young woman minister to me. She can get me hard, keep me hard, stroke me, her hands lubed with baby oil or moisturizer, whichever I prefer. If I’m lucky, she’ll be the kind of person who really enjoys her work, or, at least, enjoys working with me. And, at the end of the hour, I can explode, satisfied, sated.
There’s no doubt in my mind but that this is what I’d like to do right now.
But wait a second.
There are dozens of reasons not to do this. To start with, it would be a betrayal. I’ve done lots of betraying. I’m not proud of this, but betraying comes easily to me. For the same reason “pimps” famously “turn out” young prostitutes, once you’ve done something, the stigma of doing it again diminishes, diminishes, until ultimately, it vanishes. Sure, time has passed, things have changed. But betrayal is something I’m all-too-capable of rationalizing away, I know.
There’s the money. It’s expensive to conjure a pretty woman to stroke my cock for an hour. Not expensive in the “I don’t have the money for it in my pocket” sense. But expensive in the sense of “Is this really an appropriate use of my family’s resources?”
And there are all the intrapsychic reasons.
I know, I know, that if I do it, if I indulge my hunger, I will enter a sort of dissociative state, one in which I cease being, fully, me, and put enormous distance between the actions of my physical body and my ongoing sense of self, of awareness. Not that it wouldn’t be me there, on the table, cock in hand, but it wouldn’t. There’s a certain discontinuity associated with dissociation that is, at best, slightly numbing, and at worst, is annihilating.
And, the shame. If I do it, I’ll be washed over in shame, before, during, and after. I’ll think myself weak, I’ll think myself pathetic. I’ll judge myself. I’ll imagine myself being judged. By the woman whose hand delivers pleasure. By my family. By you.
In the past, these aspects of the experience – the dissociation, the shame – were not just costs of the experience to me, but also, at the same time, benefits. Somehow, there was a part of me that craved the numbness, that craved the validation that I’m not desirable except by spending money to achieve the semblance of being desired. I’d be lying if I said that part of me is dead, but it certainly occupies a somewhat different space in my psyche today. I’m much more curious about how it works than compelled to chase it.
And so, I sit. I took myself to a favorite writing spot. One where the WiFi is good, as is the scenery. I can see beautiful buildings, beautiful nature, and beautiful women from where I sit, typing these words on my keyboard. And I write. I explore what it would be like, why I think I’m having this craving. I avoid judging myself – I’m over that. I am who I am. Cravings aren’t an indication of my weakness or shame – they’re an indication, on some level, that I’m alive. And, generally speaking, that I’m in some sort of distress.
What sort of distress, you ask? Well, there’s always distress, isn’t there? There’s boredom. There’s fatigue. There’s hunger. Boredom tends not to rank high on my list of conscious laments. But fatigue and hunger sure do. And, there’s loneliness. This, I fear, is generally the proximate cause of 99% of the bad decisions I’ve made in my life thus far. I heard a talk, once, by a gifted dharma teacher, in which he described his painful discovery that his loneliness wasn’t remedied by falling in love, by being married, even necessarily by being in the company of those he loved. It was more like a preexisting state, inherent in his body. I get this. It’s true of me. It’s not the loneliness of a friendless loner. It’s the loneliness of one for whom opening up, sharing, making oneself vulnerable, exposing oneself to the possibility of hurt, of abandonment, of pain, is not a natural instinct.
This is me. Sure, I’ve found ways around this. I make myself vulnerable, to those I love, and to hundreds (thousands) of others. And yet, and still, on this particular afternoon, as I confront an empty window of two hours, I feel it, and it feels (nearly) inescapable.
But I do escape it. I don’t flee it. I feel it. I sit down. I watch my breath. I write some words. And I don’t act out sexually.
This is what it’s like to be me. I’m lucky: these cravings are a lot fewer and farther between than they once were. And, they feel less irresistible. And, I have tools. Meditation. Writing. Acceptance. Generosity. And, of course, others. Connecting with others is imperfect, but it’s the most reliable antidote to soul-crushing, misery-inducing loneliness.
(Sorry for a less-than-sexy post.)