Before I get started, I’ll acknowledge that everything I’m about to say might be an exercise in rationalization. With that clear, I’ll continue.
I think age is teaching me who I’ve always been. All along, I’ve felt much of what the world offers isn’t for me. Perhaps the better way of phrasing that would be to say I’m not fit for this world. For as typical as this sounds, I can’t stress enough how true it rings for me. I play along and I get by the best I can, but I know I’m not made for any of this. Although I’m becoming more distant with age, I’ve felt adrift since childhood. This isn’t just an excuse. Some people are well suited to contemporary living. I’ve never been one of those people. What I’m seeing more and more is the part of life I’ve craved the most has been inaccessible because I’m simply not the right kind of person for it.
Sex should involve some amount of warmth between partners. Desire should coalesce with some affinity for the other person and lead to affection and intimacy. I’m such a cold person that cultivating warmth is akin to lighting a wet match. I stir little interest from any other person, thus I don’t get the opportunity to fan the embers with anyone. Even if I did, I suspect my coldness would be difficult to overcome. I don’t like when people touch me. I don’t like being near other people. I don’t like having to talk. The idea of pleasing a partner appeals to me, but I don’t want to have to deal with that person. Likewise, I’d like a partner to make me feel good, but then I’d like her to go away.
What has become apparent is I have no business trying to enjoy any kind of sexuality with other people. Just as I’m not cut out for parties and team-building exercises, I’m not the right guy for any kind of sexual relationship. I wish I‘d realized this earlier. For years, I’ve tormented myself with trying to foster a sex life of some kind that involves a partner. I might not have put myself through such consternation had I accepted that people like me aren’t fit for sex. My sexual functioning is a joke, but I’ve tried despite my body’s apparent refusal to cooperate. Certainly, years of sexual neglect have made me colder and less potent, but I might have been able to avoid some frustration had I just recognized who I was.
For me, sex is porn, strippers, and prostitutes. The strippers and prostitutes have decreasing appeal because I have to interact with them. Over the years, I’ve relished the attention they’ve given me. Some nights, that attention has saved me. Aging is diminishing my willingness to deal with the other patrons at clubs. It’s weathering my tolerance for the hassle of making arrangements at a massage parlor or with an escort. Jerking off is so much easier. The advent of webcam performances has given me a new outlet for interaction, but even that can be more conversation than I can tolerate. Chatting in anonymous rooms can be fun, at least for a few minutes until doing so makes me feel like an idiot. I come back to porn for its lack of interaction, but watching people have exciting (even if artificial) sex has begun to depress me. I guess for me, sex is sliding towards masturbating to whatever fantasies are the least upsetting.
In some ways, I suppose I might be well suited for life in this century. All of us might be creeping towards a society filled with post-intimacy sex. Much is made of young people vying for sex with little if any commitment. I don’t know that this is anything new, but maybe my generation and those a generation younger than me are becoming increasingly disconnected from one another. Beyond our disconnection from one another, we might be disconnected from touch itself. The array of options available to men and women who wish to get off without anyone else’s help is staggering. Touch might become obsolete. I’ve known for as long as I’ve had sexual contact with others that sex with myself is much better than sex with anyone else. As our disconnected culture comes of age, perhaps this realization is spreading. Does this mean I’m not really alone?
The timing of my realization might be beneficial after all. I can feel my libido shriveling. I still feel sad when I see women I find attractive, but the sadness isn’t as deep as it used to be. Jerking off is becoming more like a dull chore than something to anticipate. I’ve thought since my teens that life might be easier if I lacked any sexual desire. I might get to find out in the next few years. Until then, I’ll continue having sex with the person who is meant for me: me.