This awful thing happened to me when I graduated from college a few years ago. It’s embarrassing. It’s personal. It’s probably not appropriate to say aloud anyway. Whatever, okay, it’s a disclosure of sorts. Here it is.
…I can’t bring myself to fuck anyone without feelings.
No, shit, let me rephrase this. It’s that I can’t bring myself to fuck anyone I don’t have feelings for.
It still sounds awkward and rightfully so. Sentences like these weren’t meant to be written, nevermind shared.
And while as a person I am irrationally overwhelmed with the so-called pathos of everyday existence in New York, it’s been an epic struggle to find anyone I connect with.
I wasn’t always like this. No, I remember Ross in college, big ugly Ross who hit on all of my friends, and probably slept with a few of them, getting me high and picking up hamburgers from Wendy’s. Then we went back to his dormroom that cold winter of Junior year to have halting sex on his stiff mattress. So what, it didn’t even feel good, but it felt good enough.
I’m not saying I need to be in love. I never said that. After all, I don’t fall in love easily; it’s only happened once. Maybe once and a half if you count European desperation. Regardless, I’m not foolish or prudish enough to wait around for it, if it ever decides to knock. I just need some sort of mental correspondence to get me going. Because I can drink myself into a spinning slut of courageous proportions, but in the end I am too dizzy and tired to do anything but exchange sloppy kisses and spoon.
I’ve tried. I tried this summer, with a friend, to have casual sex. It didn’t work. Yes it worked, technically speaking, but I felt awkward and paranoid. The tension that was there somehow evaporated when his lips first touched my neck. I imagined intellectual feelings for him, like a kinky sexual fantasy in reverse.
And now it’s November. Months later.
My bed is still empty and the beat of urgency has all but worn off. I’ve called off the search. I’ve taken up late-night television and finishing the books I’ve started. Which is to say: If this is emotional maturity, you can have it back. If this is what it means to fully understand the beauty of making love, well fuck me! What good is making love if you can’t even find someone worthy of a good fuck?