Sexlessness and God

It's been a while because I haven't felt grindr as natural a segue of late, it's been a nuisance and a chore (and a frequently obnoxious one) rather than the god-given convenience I felt it to be just a month ago. I don't know what's heralded this dramatic shift in viewpoint but it's settled in with gloomy belligerence. Am I turning into an urbanite prude more interested in registering the minutia of celebrity/fashion/geek culture (enlarging my store of party-ready quips), than satisfying the nearest ache any human anywhere anytime has ever known, and with near-certainty might I say will ever know? I maybe need to take a retrospective of my life and the things that I want, because obviously my values are changing, which my general discontent with (though presently not exclusive to) grindr is probably symptomatic of; a spiritual 'spring clean'. Oh joy. 

Though I'm not dissatisfied with sex period, just disillusioned about the levelheaded-ness of my casual bedfellows. Apparently you can't gauge if a person is defunct on some fundamental level after an hour and three whiskeys, a skill I'd optimistically cemented in the set. Nor can you make an even remotely accurate summation of another human via grindr chat. Like, seriously, you can't even make a reliable guess as to whether or not the person you're chatting with is worth an hour of your time sexually. They could be all late seventies Sylvester Stallone, confess reluctantly to a semi-corporate occupation with neo-liberal sensibilities which definitely rubs your own imagined proletariat-status the wrong way but you make the decision to go round because they're funny in chat but in a caustic way so you really should've known better, and regardless of money and a knee-buckling twelve-pack still be an embarrassingly inert lay. If I was into that, I'd take up a job dressing corpses at a funeral home.

I did get head in a bar the other night which was new (kind of). I'm not into 'venues' (at this stage). I'm more into seeing what kinda place the guy has, out of some vampiric curiosity. There's something I get out of the hookup which I wouldn't at a venue, it's less anonymous. Seeing their domestic space contextualises it somehow, makes a stable memory even if we never see each other again. It's how I mark time. 

Back to my hiatus. There've been stresses external to my sexual activity and various partners which are hindering my 'mojo'. I don't like the way this stress has undermined my conscious ethos on sex, forcing me imperceptibly into patterns of behaviour I can only now acknowledge as compulsive. But then maybe that's fine. If the reality principle is felt resistance to the pleasure principle, the resonance of No, then loss of control is a necessary reminder, a prophylactic against casual arrogance and also a grounding pressure. I am centred by loss of control, I frequently find it necessary to feel unsafe. These things are fine. They humble me. 

I definitely own sex less when I'm stressed. It's less playful, I take less pleasure in it, as you would medicine. 

So that's where I'm at, that's why the absence from blogging my exploits, because they've been fewer and fouler. 

This post more than any other feels like dirt in plain sight, psychic debris I wouldn't normally scrutinise, but the fantasy-audience intrinsic to the act of 'blogging' and of interfacing with media period, forces me to flaunt the wound with pride. It's like making a blood-sacrifice to a god who finally bestows the peace you've sought, but only after you and your wrongs are made example of. Is this a Christian guilt thing? Is the need to talk about sex, even if consciously prescribing the body-positive, always going to be in light of guilt and expiation?