I Sure Feel Like a Consolation Prize
In which the author bleeds over his keyboard for your amusement.
On Friday of last week, today is Sunday, I wrote about 1,800 words of a first draft for this. I sent it to one of the people who have the (questionable) privilege of reading my drafts. Her response was “WTF? What are you doing to yourself?”
So, here I am with you, Dear Reader, rewriting it. Frankly, I am afraid of what this will become. But here we are. I promised to show you the work in progress that I am. This is part of that promise.
A lot of you whom I follow, and I can only hope follow me in return, write about sex. A common theme is about how sex saved your life. I get that. But I have questions.
I feel that I have become demi-sexual by default. That I had my chances to separate love and sex, and in all cases, I failed to do so successfully. So while the rest of you are out there enjoying the casual pleasure of physical intimacy, I have been slowing falling into an aloneness that is increasingly profound and damaging to me daily.
It is no secret that I spend way too much time in my own head. Blame it on whatever diagnosis, or lack of diagnosis, you prefer. I have my own theories which I have discussed elsewhere, and which I am sure we will review again. At length.
