Did you know that this is the longest I’ve ever gone in my adult life without any intimate physical contact with a member of the opposite sex? It’s true.
I hope you don’t misunderstand me: I’m not lamenting this state of affairs, but rather pointing out the fact as evidence of how drastically different things have gotten. There was a time where I would have lost my mind if I didn’t lose my pants, dig?
Oh but I loved them all in my own special, solipsistic way, didn’t I? Even if it was only for a night or an hour or just one drunken exchanged glance across a crowded barroom, I loved them all. Except I didn’t really; I loved myself. Or rather, I loved the way these women, whether they were dive trollops or convent nuns, made me feel. They gave me everything I could never give myself: validation, self-worth, a sense of importance. I wanted to be their chivalrous champion for all of eternity (or until I got bored of them or they got tired of my insanity, at least).
But I wasn’t no chivalrous champion, Dionysus. I was just a harbinger of heartbreak. Sure, my rendition of the gentleman was often first-rate, but I’d typically ditch it first chance I saw in favor of the callous Casanova.
I’d start out Cyrano De Bergerac and come out sad Lothario every single fucking time.
And I loved it. I absolutely loved it. I got to play every single angle with these chicks, Dionysus. I’d make them feel adored and admired like nobody ever had; Indeed, I was a professional pedestal sculptor. But then I’d do a quick costume change, and once I came back onstage it was all harsh words and sly vindictiveness and sadistic gravitas. Because as it turns out, I enjoyed smashing pedestals far more than I did building them.
I was an abomination, Dionysus, a bestial bully with an insatiable inclination for possessing and exploiting these poor, hapless girls. I wanted nothing more than to run the emotional gamut with my consorts, in proper marathon fashion: heavenly highs and Lethean lows for all my squeezes, Dionysus. I was a veritable emotional Bluebeard.
I’d be lying if I said that sex didn’t play a huge part in my romantic roles. I’ve avoided this topic so long and so intentionally that I’m weary and reluctant to discuss it now. It’s a combination of my Protestant upbringing and personal guilt on the matter, I suppose. But it would be detracting to my aims, even counterproductive, to neglect that part of the picture wouldn’t it? Although I may use a bit of artistic license here and stick to broad brushes for now in the interest of sanity and self-preservation.
The thing about sex is it’s different every time: people, circumstances, hour, weather, mental state, levels of inebriation, background music, backseat angles, and personal histories all contribute to each and every licentious liaison. If a girl adored me with every fiber of her being, that would be one kind. If a chick barely knew me, that would be another. And if a woman hated me deeply, whether she knew it or not, well that could be the best kind.
I’m beginning to sound like the Marquis de Sade, aren’t I? Well, Dionysus, I suppose he was one of yours too, so it makes sense.
Here’s the deal: Sex was, for all intents and purposes, just another drug. And like drugs, I definitely had my favorite kinds and combinations and environments for engaging in such things, but that didn’t mean that I wouldn’t take just about anything else if it happened to come my way. A lot of the time it was just like copping dope: you could usually find somebody who had it, but you’d had to convince them to give it to you, which typically took a lot of cajoling and caressing and sometimes a little money. And then you had to wait for it, even though you knew it was coming, and for the life of you, you just couldn’t decide whether that sucking sensation in your stomach was excitement or premature guilt.
I know now that it was both, Dionysus. Because for me, the things that would make me feel the worst when all was said and done, the things that I would find most shameful and deplorable and regrettable later on, were the ones I was most drawn to. These were the acts I wanted to engage in so badly that I would give every ounce of my dignity and whatever thin moral fibre I had to commit. I was Aphrodite’s cupbearer, praying that the wine was poisoned because I fucking loved the taste of arsenic.
Now I’m starting to sound like Leopold von Sacher-Mosoch. You knew him too, I’d wager.
However, I could never just be honest about my itinerant carnality. I couldn’t just admit that I fancied fornicating and traipsing with trollops. For whatever reason, I had to prepare a pretense for my preoccupations. This involved a lot of delusional romanticization on my part, Dionysus, for I had to thoroughly convince myself (and others if possible) that I was entirely infatuated with whichever woman I was with, that I was a devoted admirer.
Of course I wasn’t. At least not in the majority of instances (and there are a lot, aren’t there?). I was appealing to a primordial, primitive drive and passing it off as divine love. I was an effective shyster, but a shyster nonetheless.
I carried on like this for a long time. But I wasn’t always that way. I used to be a scared virgin, a sensitive romantic idealist who shunned the notion of sleeping my way through the female ranks. The truly incomprehensible bit is, that even when I was making a career out of carousing, I still despised the very idea of what I was doing deep down; I just couldn’t do anything about it.
There are a lot of anecdotal stories pertaining to this topic, and I’m sure we’ll get into them in due time, but for now, for me, I’ll save them. I figure I’ll lay the heavy stuff on you today since it’s Monday and get into the misadventurous stuff as the week goes on.
Lucky you, this topic might consume even more than one week, Dionysus; I’ve been a very, very bad boy.
Celibacy isn’t an act of penance by any stretch, but it’s the best I can do for now, love.
</3 Sir Rateval Hurtlinge
P.S. In response to the question that most of the five people who actually read this are thinking: No, I never caught any sexually transmitted diseases. Unless you count relationships, because I caught a few cases of those as a result of sleeping with people.