1. Horny isn’t a feeling that generally arises in me on its own. Rather, it is summoned by me, with help from external stimulation. That stimulation might be inanimate, objectified, impersonal, as with porn. Or I might deploy a person for the purpose.
2. In either case, I feel vulnerable to the dissipation of my desire. If the stimulus recedes, or diminishes, or is… imperfect… my fragile desire runs the risk of evaporating.
3. At the same time, my desire has a sort of meta-hunger to it: the more I want, the more I want. Like a junkie, a fix generally doesn’t satisfy me. It stokes my hunger.
4. When a woman (and yes, for me, it’s almost always a woman) activates me, my rapaciousness follows. My core fantasy – an unending stream of women engaging with me orally – reflects this. One woman sucking my cock is hot. Two? Scorching? Three? Blinding. And so on, asymptotically, the derivative of the function itself exponential.
In those of my interlocutors so inclined, this phenomenon gives rise to jealousy. This blog exacerbates that phenomenon. Inevitably, when I feel ardor, if I’m able to write about how one woman ignites, fans the flames of my ardor, another woman currently engaged in a similar project reads what I write and has a feeling, a reaction.
I wish I could wave a magic wand and make that reaction be one of happiness for me, sympathetic joy, compersion (as the poly hordes call it). But as often as not, the reaction is different: jealousy. Sadness. Exclusion. Inadequacy.
The thing is, my interlocutors are human – not objects for the perfect gratification of my every desire. And even when a woman gets off on being my object, on gratifying my desires, most often, there lies at the center of her relationship to me a (reasonable, understandable, appropriate) narcissistic hope to gratify me in a final, complete, total way. She might find herself turned on by the bottomlessness of my desire for her. But rarely does she delight in the way that my bottomlessness desire inevitably extends beyond her (bottom).
I imagine that, at some level, this phenomenon reflects my infantile fear of abandonment (or anemone, as my keyboard insists). The more protects me from my terror that you will leave me.