::Intensity

Where to begin?

I don’t know if it’s age, or hormones, or just a weariness of doing the same things I’ve been doing for the last decade or two.  But things in my life are just not as enjoyable as I’d like them to be.  There isn’t the excitement, the fulfillment, the deeper satisfaction.  I’m not sure why that is – if I’m more emotionally insulated, or what.

Sex is weird.  We’ve talked about this, you and I.  I used to have eye-rolling, toe-curling, mind-blowing orgasms each and every time.  Now I have to fight to get any sort of orgasm and it’s often more of a pop and a grunt and a "well, thanks….".  I’m not sure what’s to blame.  I’m circumcised – so I wonder if my junk is just exposed and numbed up from all that rubbing against underwear and whatnot.  Thus, a consequence of mutilation and age.  Or, if it’s a matter of hormones – mine are out of whack.  Or, if it’s my chosen partner, who has a great body but just wants to lay there and let me do my thing.  Which is not erotic.  At all.  Even a little.  But, you know, boobs. 

I suppose it is wrapped up in emotion, which is also a weird beast.  I was thinking the other day about how I used to get little crushes all the time in my 20s.  On people I worked with, on waitresses I saw regularly, on Internet people I’d never met.  It doesn’t seem to happen as much anymore.  I miss it.  Requited or not, pursued or not, the little emotional jaunts made life interesting.  Fascinating.  Fun.  Even if it was all just flutters in the ribcage and what-if fantasies.  (And years down the line, we talk about polyamory and it doesn’t necessarily have to be what-if, and there is no-one.)

Almost no-one.  There was someone who read this nonsense I write.   She appeared out of the darkness one night a few months ago and said all the right things, as if she’d been conjured from the hidden half of my brain to trigger off every latent fantasy and want I’d had in the last five years.  She said things to me I’ve only ever thought to myself in private.  Things I’ve never told anyone, not even you.  She just knew.  She was torrid and sexy and terrifying and compelling.  She pounced like a cat and bit like a wolf and I wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t been 1000 miles away in the fleshworld.  But she vanished, all and sudden – she’d lost her apartment and had to move back in with family.  Her last entry was about her farewell party to the old homestead.  Crickets and silence, since.  I never got so much as her e-mail address.  It’s been a month (two actually…) and at this point I have to rub my forehead and wince and assume it was booze and pills, or a car crash, or who-knows-what, but she’s not coming back.  That intoxication is no more.

I find myself wanting it back somehow, that intensity.  I don’t know what I need now — new friends, a mistress, a good kick in the head maybe.   Some of you write about polyamorous triads or groups or what-you-call-em and I want your life so badly.   Even when it is agonizing and heartbreaking, it is still exciting and interesting.  And when it’s good, it sounds heavenly.  I’ve been so close and yet so far.

New hobbies, maybe.  I used to spend all night video gaming, and it’s been mattering to me less and less and less.  A slow trickle over months, that crept up on me until I realized I wasn’t finishing the games I bought, wasn’t spending the hours I used to, was skipping new releases of the Hot New Shooter in favor of getting it "just whenever it’s on sale" or maybe just Not at All.  They’re mostly hamster wheels on the inside anymore, and it’s really a shame.  I miss being genuinely excited over some new, groundbreaking game – the way you would over a favorite band’s breakthrough album or something like that. 

RPGs are still a thing, at least.  Most of my gaming is done with a group of guys that I’ve known since high school and I think that might be why it wears a little thin.  It seems like we’ve played all the systems and rolled all the dice and told all the stories before, but it’s sure nice to see the guys on the weekend and do a little bullshitting in between the dragon-swacking and goblin-stomping.  So, that’s okay.  Just not as intense and profound as it used to be.  Thus my nattering.

I think I need a plan.  Which is tougher when I’m not sure what my goals should be.

I had a birthday last week and she threw me a surprise party.  It’s actually the first birthday party I ever had in my entire life.  It ended up being kind of mellow and low-key and relaxing.  A good day by the pool eating cake and sandwiches and feeling flattered that all these great people came to see me.  Which is a digression because I wanted to mention that I still have a piece of that cake left.  

And when the cake is gone, in another day or two, I am going back on Weight Watchers.  And I am going to lose a hundred fucking pounds, goddammit.  Because I can, and you can’t stop me.  And when I’m done I’ll be a rippling bohunk and I’ll feel better, smell better, taste better.  And I’ll look so good that if there is excitement to be found in this world, I’ll be fit enough to attract it and hardy enough to keep up with it and tough enough to wrestle it to the ground.  Maybe then food will taste better and my cock will behave and I can start liking video games again.

I also need to decide what to do about writing.  Which is another entry unto itself.  Or, maybe a couple of them:  I got asked by a friend here (who I won’t name) to write some genuine, X-rated smut.  Just to be nice.  (She is married, by the way.  So, don’t get any ideas.)   The reason I am mentioning this is because it’s actually kind of an interesting writing exercise.  I’ve read plenty of Dear Penthouse letters but never actually written a sex scene, even a non-graphic one.  So I think I know what I’m going to do — it’s a little outside of my comfort zone.  Maybe a lot.  But I am going to post it in a friends-only entry here.  Thus my warning:  if you are on my list and see an entry titled "Smut" in the near future, you know EXACTLY what you are getting into.  Don’t come crying to me after.  And if you’re not on my list I suppose that is the perfect opening for you to ask.  Out, you lurkers!  Out yourselves!

And after that I need to either get serious about writing and make plans and deadlines and start trying to sell stories again.  The pressure is building and the words want out.