June 27, 2017. Mark that date, boys and girls. That’s the last time I fucked, properly. My French affair came to an end, and so did a successful roll of varied lovers. Then, an abysmal dry spell. And all the thoughts and existential angst that came with it.
I miss fucking; the tender denial of reality that comes with it. Sex is highly overrated, but you already know that, don’t you? Me too. But, while engaging in it, in the whole process of attraction, flirtation, seduction, foreplay, intercourse, completion and repetition; you don’t spend much time questioning it. Or anything. You are gone. Maybe not completely -I never am,- but enough to exfoliate the pain from the thin skin of your meaningless being.
So you seek it. Constantly. Relentlessly. The sweet release of the little death. La petite mort.
Last night I drank liters of beer to wash down some gin and tonics and a couple of shitty cocktails at the annual company party. I finally dared to tell the “most beautiful girl in the whole building” that she made my days bearable, every time I saw her in the canteen. She was drunk and overly approachable. “Aw, you are so cute,” she said, which translates to “I will never fuck you.” She, of course, has a boyfriend. Also, fun fact, she had never even noticed me before. “I’m the creepy guy who you have probably seen staring at you during lunch,” I explained. But no; she was absolutely unaware of my existence. Quite a hit in the feels. So I drank more, until the bar closed and the party was over. I was a drunkard. A cute one.
This afternoon, I walked home on the cold streets of Østerbro with my kebab menu to go in a cheap plastic bag. I was feeling lonely. Hungover and lonely. Suddenly, a puddle of vomit revealed itself in front of me, on the sidewalk. It was slowly being washed away by the rain. Was it some sort of sick sign God was sending me? Perhaps. Did I care? No. I walked around it. I was hungry. Nothing mattered.