“So that’s it?”
The thought was my own, though it emerged from a state of mind far removed from my typical. It was the weekend before last. Looking down in the dimly lit bedroom at the mess I had just launched into an old pair of boxers after masturbating myself to orgasm while on mushrooms, the thought seemed like a perfectly natural reaction.
I mean: really? This was it? This was the Big Fucking Deal?
Sure, you’re scratching an instinctive itch and all and it feels good getting that nagging need to go away, if only for a short period, but was this really worth all the fuss, all the time invested in sexual fantasies, all the endless clicking of porn links leading you down a seductive vortex of debauchery, desperately trying to find the right video to release the hostages to?
Not really, I must confess to shroom-me. Sometimes I feel a lot like a dog circling and sniffing across a huge yard of beautiful, green grass, being all finicky about precisely where he is to drop just another poo.
It really is pointless. Just do it already, you know? Drop your load and let’s go. You are not actually fucking anybody, and if scratching the itch is all that matters, dig in your nails like an eager little masochist and let’s get on with the program here. Do what you do and get on with the bigger and better things.
Why the build-up, the emphasis, the need for perfection or to up the ante, and all for a comparatively short-lived state of riding the jollies before left to saturate in the ever-transient peace that came with exhale of mental dead air in the wake?
I must confess that I have come to wonder if it is the orgasm that drives me so much as the calm that follows. Only then can I finally relax and just enjoy life. I piss, wash my hands, and then typically make something to eat and watch a documentary, a movie, or the rare television show that currently has me hooked. I’m sure to soak up the joy, feel the weight lifted off my shoulders, saturate in that light and floaty feeling that comes after that discharge of tension, as it is never long until it all tightens up and comes crashing down again. Typically it’s a matter of hours, and usually by then I’ve finally fallen asleep.
So I guess no, that’s not it. It goes deeper after all.
Of course, I also got the feeling that mushroom-me was referring to the fantasy I had engaged in before finally working it out of me. Her, the redhead — was that all you want from her, to have her star in some fantasy that has become your default grand finale of the evening?
At a rational level, yes, for I know well that if you go long enough without getting laid then you begin to confuse the voice of your heart with the yearnings of your penis. You confuse cock and cockles, you know? The body has to coerce consciousness to serve the body’s needs, it would seem, and if you cold shoulder the usual alarms your dick launches a false flag operation. It’s the dick’s only option given that I have failed to heed the direct and most primal kind of call. It has to make me think this desire stems from the highest aspects of nature. Its not just that I want to squeeze out my Twinki’s cream filling in her ol’ skin-clam — shucks no, that would be so beneath me — but there must be some emotional, even spiritual yearning for her which only expresses it through the penis.
No. My feelings for her are false flag feelings. I will use the thought of her as an object of masturbation if I must, but I refuse to use her as an object. To do so would essentially be to transform sex into a mere extension of masturbation anyway. She would be but a prop, and I refuse to treat a person like that. My body is just lying to me, and until I do fuck it will continue, until I do fuck I won’t be able to see clearly in terms of higher things when it comes to another.
You ascend the pyramid of Maslow’s Hierarchy one step at a time or you’re just asking for trouble.
But yes, shroom-me, it’s gotten pathetic. So pathetic.