Haven't been updating the sphere because last few hookups have been godawful. I can't remember if these preceded a negative deeming of grindr, or if my negativity thereof incidentally heralded a drought of semi-decent good times/strangers. My love life of late has been under something like a karmic upheaval, unexpected resurrections and the return of once-missed connections, all without aid of grindr.
Maybe it's because I've changed focus without realising, and the app is no longer serving me on the level it was. I sense a pending review of self, most pressingly my attitudes regarding sex, because clearly I have different needs right now and grindr's not the ticket.
It's been good, weird, psychologically disorienting, bad; I feel emotionally frail. And hot to boot. I mean literally, I can't get a lazy pump-action going before I'm apologising to some guy about how profusely I sweat, that it's just a thing and he'll have to cope. I have in mind a stairwell fuck that was so humid I swear my fingers pruned and I thought I'd pass out.
Fuck summer.
So do I have any ideas re the abrupt disinterest in grindr?
Using it recently, I've found myself stopping mid chat, realising I have no intention of hooking up with this person, commencing guilt on my folly and throwing myself into some other productive pursuit to redeem the wasted effort. But what's more productive than pleasure? Has my appetite transformed into something higher, am I transcending my most basic biological functions albeit momentarily?
On stale incentives, a friend enlightened me to the hazards of 'fuck-cycles' a few months back. These are when you have a legendary sexual experience with someone, and this person becomes the cast of your ideal, beyond whom you try and recreate that experience by enacting similar conditions and recruiting numerous doppelgängers.
Ironically, the deliberation of the simulated moment falls short of the miraculous providence that guided the encounters's various components into being firstly, frustrating and exacerbating the memory-desire endlessly.
It's like blowing a neural fuse after reaching nirvana and never being able to quite make it back.
Perhaps pleasures need to be relinquished as soon as they occur, fuck this compulsive documentation. Nostalgia generally segues into suffering, creating a schism between the past and the present whereby the latter is negated.
Like that golden age shit.
I'm unintentionally leaning towards hemp-toting notions of The Endless Moment, revering the unique essences in times passing without attachment, enjoying the procession without anxious critique (popularly symptomatic of an aggrandised sense of self; bad Westerners!).
I don't know.
(Admitting ones own ignorance is the first step toward enlightenment...)
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