Been away for a few days and return to Kiwifarms to a state of
utter stupefaction that I am not
riddled with autistic ratings. Apologies for any errors in this post: I can type exceedingly fast but the resulting content is variable and may require extremely charitable interpretation.
Anyway
@awoo my response would vary from day to day depending my excessively labile mood but ... under no circumstances will it be as good as you anticipated although sure, it's nice. I note that your post does not refer to a specific person or even sex, and while I am of course referring to a mere single quoted sentence, doesn't indicate anything about another individual existing in any capacity beyond what you would like to do with them. So I assume that if you have anything in common with me -- and I am admittedly a bit psychologically anomalous -- we are more or less talking about a slightly more sophisticated type of masturbation here. Except with possibly enormous planning time, expenses in food/drinks/accommodation, regret at your own superficiality, lack of self-control and time-wasting when you could have been doing something productive, and hating yourself for browsing a
fucking catalogue or hitting up complete strangers like an
erotomaniac moron. Lots of people claim to enjoy doing this but none of them seem happy to me, and the most promiscuous (not that this is you but lots of gays can envision no higher calling) seem the most unhappy. I hope you understand why it is terrifying thing for someone to be so base or bereft of purpose: you may as well make your goal in life, "I want to eat a meal today". Happiness requires having a variety of goals of varying timeframes and degrees of difficulty: even if you accomplish something enormously difficult, you immediately need another thing to work toward or you will be miserable. Hence the misery of the monomaniacal pursuit of the next hole. These people seem like ghosts to me: they will pass from the planet without leaving the slightest visible trace of their existence. How hellish and depressingly animal-like that seems to me. Especially if you live in a nice city where you are constantly surrounded by the fine architecture and landscaping of long-gone greats who are still somehow managing to hold out against eternity.
Love is different to the above because you have a genuine shared life/family-in-miniature in which you are of course enormously affectionate but most of what you do and talk about could equally well happen in a close friendship. Ideally, you support each other emotionally and help each other attain your goals, keep each other company, push each other to become the best person possible, keep life lively and have someone to make it fun to even do boring things together, etc. Sex is what you do 1% of the time together. Yet I say this wondering why my partner sleeping with someone else away from me would make me positively insane with jealousy, and why four days without sex -- oh no, we're becoming a couple of best friends -- was such a horrific thing to me. Maybe because it's a barometer of the future.
I know skin-hunger well but have no interest in touching strangers. Maybe you'd find this unsatisfying too. Sleeping with a casual partner after you have satiated yourself/returned from planet cumshot can be pretty annoying and sixty pounds of metabolically-active limbs draped across you can make the bed too warm for comfort. It is wonderful if you are in love though. In any case, if you are older than 21 and have been alone all this time, you are probably not aware of it, and may deny it, but you have spent too much time alone and had your personality develop too long in its own arc unaffected by the gravity of others that days at a time in the company of others will be noisome to you. You will have more trouble surrendering your privacy and independence and become irked by others' snoring, banal conversation, bizarre habits, and crippled telepathic faculties. Maybe not if you're in love.
Also one thing maybe worth keeping in mind -- it has at any rate occurred to me -- is that sex is probably the most severely variety-limited recreational thing you can. A dick will not spit its hundredth load at you and transform into its next exciting evolution. You will probably get the sense "there must be more to it than this" because you (and we, culturally) have aggrandized the idea of sex as super pleasurable to the point that it hurts to admit you can explore all the possibilities in a couple hours. A few more for it to become commonplace. Because to do so means admitting that you have one less thing than you anticipated in your mediocre life conducive to happiness. New partners will simulate variety to an extent and for a while but let's not fool ourselves -- we're not playing Spore: there's minimal likelihood that biology will present you with an intriguing surprise. Maybe the dimensions and pigmentation of your target anatomy of choice will be different in a good way. A little depressing. I have escaped this enormously unsatisfying state of affairs by having unconsciously made my own happiness dependent on the happiness of someone I love. I literally don't care if I get off at all: I'm happy and enjoying myself if he is. He more or less does the same. Which causes a strange bootstrapping effect where you can be having a great time almost objectively indistinguishable from your first few hottest encounters while simultaneously being bored or overfamiliar with the relevant anatomy. Unless you also get tired of seeing your partner happy, anyway.
