The Algebra of Need
Dec 21st, 2024 by Holiday
I call myself a sex-addict because I seldom fail to act on erotic impulses.
These impulses do not rule my nature, but when afflicted the sensation is like a hot, overwhelming fever. Under the circumstances I feel compelled to act, as if I’m powerless to resist.
My obsessive-compulsive trait is a shadow that has been with me as long as I can remember.
As with any kind of addiction, the compulsion is not concerned primarily with pleasure, but rather with the satisfaction of its own mechanisms, the constantly renewed state of anxiety and anticipation.
When I try to score sex with a first-time lover, the ritual of pursuit is frequently more satisfying then the tryst. The initial sex act may only last 10, 15, 20 minutes. Perhaps for marathon candidates, the physical intimacy lasts considerably longer.
I’m neither a sprinter, nor a cross-country runner. My stamina is somewhere in between.
If one is married and interested in the same gender, the cycle of anxiety and anticipation is particularly heightened. Yet the fast eye contact, quickly negotiated language of lust (top, bottom, switch), the rapid-fire emails, the hurried phone conversations, and the clandestine arrangements may be more intoxicating than the physical consummation.
Integral to my sanity is that the compulsion to write is stronger than the compulsion to act.
When the addiction for sex wanes or can’t be satisfied, I don’t fall prey to the alcoholic’s delirium tremors or junkie sickness. There is always the compulsion to write, which is like a biological need for water. This is the algebra of need.
To celebrate the varieties of sexual expression between adults is a way of avoiding becoming a ventriloquist’s dummy, walking through life with a rigid doll face.
Writers share a continuous, dismayed awareness of the terrible waste of human energy that passes for life.
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bisexuals, erotica, < sex, sex blogs