In the last week, Donald Trump and his supporters have left me feeling – not very sexual.
This, I think, is part of what I hinted at when I wrote that I suffered from a feeling of “deadness.”
That feeling, of deadness, devastates me. It annihilates me. It makes focus, and effort, impossible, and in the past, it has led me down destructive, damaging paths. When I feel dead, I impulsively seek activities that will counter that feeling, that I hope will make me feel alive, or, failing that, that will make me forget I feel dead. Historically, the activities that fit that particular bill often harm myself or others. Smoking. Acting out sexually. Losing myself in mindless TV or reading.
I know from experience that somehow, my wiring got fucked up when I was young: I came to imagine that activities that numb me, that deaden me, actually represent an escape from deadness. Similarly, I came to fear, or at least to shy away from, more constructive, connected activities that might actually enliven me. Socializing. Writing. Connecting with people I love, or like. Connected sex rather than mechanical, transactional, commercial sex.
In recent years, I’ve made considerable progress in this regard, turning more and more toward constructive, connected, connecting strategies for coping with a feeling of deadness inside. But some of my old, less constructive strategies, persist. And, to be honest, some of those strategies can be less destructive/more constructive depending on how I use them.
An example: porn. Back in the day, I would sink into a vortex of porn, spending hours fleeing myself, idly rubbing my cock as I pored through page after page of images, seeking I’m not sure what. Nowadays, my use of porn is much more focused, discrete, strategic. One thing I know about porn is that a few well chosen images or films can deliver a much-needed jolt to my deadened self (which often I experience most poignantly in a near-complete lack of sensation in my cock).
I’ve written before, in a time of suppressed libido, about how I found myself uncharacteristically seeking images of women with large breasts. This time around, I’m noticing something slightly different. What I’m noticing is not, to be honest, anything new, but I’m thinking about it differently. Or maybe just, more.
What I’ve been craving these last few days is something anyone who’s interacted with me sexually knows I always crave – images of thighs and cunts, cl0thed in panties, or jeans. I don’t want to see pussies, but I want to be invited near them, to see and not to see at the same time. I want privileged access. And, I want to see female pleasure. Masturbation. Orgasms.
Even as I often crave such images, they are not typically what I crave in porn. Or rather, while I always crave such images in porn, they usually constitute a small portion of what I crave. At the moment, in my current state of deadened sensation, they are all of what I crave. One hundred percent of it. I’m not aching for the blowjobs, for the clit-licking, for the fucking…. Just the pussy. And covered.
Why is this?
I have some thoughts, and they all boil down to one basic insight: I associate life with women’s orgasms. And somehow, me, my cock, we just get in the way in times like these.