You can always tell when someone isn’t getting laid because they talk about sex constantly. Today, that someone is me.
Let’s just say, it’s been a while.
Sex for me is a double-edged sword. I always intend to sleep with some rando just to “clear the cobwebs” down there. But, before I know it, the love chemicals kick in and I’m planning my future with someone I just met. I fall in love hard, fast, and stupid; inevitably with someone completely unsuitable and probably unstable. (‘Oh you have 12 different mental disorders and are afraid to leave your house? Don’t worry, baby, I can’t see anything wrong with you when I’m in love!’)
It used to be worse. There was a time when I would get drunk and go into hunter-gatherer mode with sexual partners. I’d sleep with one person and then say “Oh that was fun, let’s try another tomorrow, shall we?” Before long I was bed-hopping my way around my neighborhood and the world, doing anything I could to avoid the feeling of impending doom that came whenever I was alone for one second.
I’ll never forget my last and most demoralizing one-night stand, which, in my haze, I couldn’t remember until I was halfway out the door of my apartment. I was stumbling out the door when I realized: “Oh right, there was someone else here last night… Oh God.” The shameful memories from the night before came back in flashes, like lightning.
I rolled up to work, barely dressed and still drunk. I immediately pestered one of my colleagues/drinking buddies to give me some uppers and accompany me to the coffee shop next door while I ate a breakfast burrito and attempted to chain-smoke my way back to consciousness.
“It’s not filling the void,” I told him, this sleeping around business. (I was desperately in love with him, of course, but that’s another story). I made sex motions with my hands to demonstrate “the void.” He laughed and split an adderall in two for us to share.
I quit drinking soon after that. When you get clean, they tell you to avoid relationships or other entanglements that could drive you to use in the highly likely event that it doesn’t work out. There’s a joke about the “3 M’s of early sobriety: meetings, movies, masturbation,” to avoid picking up, but it’s not really a joke. Listen to the song “Orgasm Addict” by the Buzzcocks and you’ll have an idea of what I’m talking about. It’s a labor of love fucking yourself to death. I’ve heard one raunchy old timer advise: “you can have as much sex as you want in first-year sobriety. The second year you can start having sex with other people, too.”
And so, sobriety taught me the gift of masturbating. There’s so much to recommend about it. There’s no faking orgasms, no STDs, no guilt because you’re fantasizing about someone other than the person you’re sleeping with.
Think about whomever you want, wherever you want. You could have a threesome with George Clooney and Amal if you wanted! Halfway through, the weird guy from the corner store could walk in. Use your imagination. Afterward, you’ll never have to say to your hand: “You USED me for sex, you cow.” There’s no waiting by the phone, no parsing the meaning of Facebook messages. It’s really the best of all possible worlds.
