I managed to drag myself back home all the way from the office. I am weak, with a cold slowly bringing me down. My throat is aching, my body hurts. A distant hammering sound echoes in my living room. I sit at my table, eating a bowl of cereal. Dinner. There’s still some sunlight coming in through the living room window, which gently warms me up. I swipe on Tinder until there are no new girls around. That’s when I know that I hit a wall, one more time. Soon, indifference settles in. My mind also feels down, as if my cold were spreading all over me, inside and out. Or I wish it was that and not the existential and emotional emptiness I feel.
By the time I broke up with my first girlfriend, I was just a few months away from turning 30, and my sexual experience was meaningless. She had been my one and only sexual partner, and not the best I could have: Catholic, sexually repressed, insecure about her body, shy and… did I mention fucking Catholic!? So I became a lousy premature ejaculator with no knowledge of the female anatomy or how to pleasure it. Nothing that a far more experienced Norwegian girl couldn’t fix. That woman broke my spirit and fucked my head up, but goddammit, she trained me to become a sex master.
After breaking up with Miss Norway, I entered a sexual frenzy. I firmly believed that the best way to heal my heart and mind -and, why not say it, hurting her back- was to fuck as many girls as I could. So I put myself out there and haven’t stopped since. It’s been 10 months now, and I’m exhausted. This fornication craze wore me out. Literally enough.
Fucking around as I have is an undeniable source of inspiration, as a writer. But as a person, it left me dry. All I want is something significant, deep, meaningful; thought all I give and get is superficial and shallow. As my friend H said, referring to our brief sexual period: “I needed the distraction but often I felt worse about myself(…) Maybe it’s the very physical manifestation of non significance.” She couldn’t be more right about that. With her and all the others, I engaged in insignificant sessions of intercourse, rendering myself insignificant in the process. An insignificant fuck.
How to balance out my life in this irrational time is above me completely. The sole concept challenges me and my will. Because, although I’m aware of the emptiness, I’m pretty sure that if T booty calls me I won’t say no. Nor if Marie does -which is highly unlikely, though.
This means I’m full of shit. Everyone is, to certain extent. At least I accept it. And maybe this acceptance is the first step to quit this madness for good. I’m not an alpha male, or a latinlover or a fucking player. I’m a sensitive man who prefers a Friday night movie-and-wine to a pathetic hunt for pussy in a bar or a club. Well, perhaps my time will come soon. In the meantime, I will bitch about everything on my blog, while still fucking around some more. There’s a reason why this column is called “The Decadence Chronicle,” after all.
