By Anthony Paull
I really need sex. Yes, I’ve been trying this celibacy bit for the last nine months, but I’m going to be the first to admit – it sucks, and not in a good way. It sucks to the point where I can’t get the word “sex” out of my head – literally. I turn everything into a sexual innuendo, to the point where last week, when a friend said his Christmas tree was dying and “sucks,” I suggested he drill a hole in the bark and take full advantage of it.
Yes, I’m that guy. I don’t feel cleansed. In fact, I feel dirtier than ever. And that’s not a good place to be when you have to go to work and be professional. So daily, I sit in front of a computer, typing this and that while thinking about love in the key of getting on my knees.
To add insult to injury, I’m dating my expartner, and it’s going really well, except I told him I don’t want to have sex, because I don’t want to rush and complicate things. I want him to put up a fight. Yes, I really want him to tease me, because I’m pursuing him this time.
Therefore, when he pulls away, I have to pretend I’m ok with it. I have to smile pretty for the camera, even though I’m suffering from hot flashes of anger, resulting in two bar fights in the last month. Yes, two weeks ago, I was literally carried out of a nightclub by the neck for telling off some Jersey Shore asshole. And before that, I made a drag queen cry, telling him I was going to rip his face off for calling my friend a whore. But honestly, I’m usually a sweet guy. What’s wrong with me?
“Your body is detoxing. You just need to breathe,” my friend Jon tells me.
“But I’m horny!” I cry. “What am I going to do?”
“Are you masturbating?”
“Um, yeah, readily.”
“But are you doing it right?” “Is there a wrong way?”
Apparently so. It seems I had been misled. Jon tells me that masturbating should be more like a cleansing of the soul and that I have to make it more of an “experience.” I mean, burying my face in my boyfriend’s dirty briefs and jacking off – that’s so primitive. According to Rob, I’m supposed to light tea candles, gather herbs, set the night to music, touch my dick (just a smidge), and then turn myself down.
“You know, tease yourself. Don’t give in. That’s your problem. You’re making it too easy.”
“Wait. Let me get this right. I’m supposed to cock-block myself ?”
“Exactly,” Jon says, becoming my confidante regarding the fine art of abstinence. And I find his stance a nice change, when most of my other friends feel I need to shut up and “fuck my way to happy.” And oh, how they love to rub the wound, texting me about their awesome sex lives on a daily basis. “Oh, I got nailed.” “Oh, he was so big.” “Oh, my butt hurts.” “Oh, I got it several times today.”
Thank God Jon is able to ground me, helping me understand there’s more to life than sex, that we’re spiritual beings having a human experience. Well, until the holidays hit.
“You’d be so proud of me. I haven’t spanked all week,” I inform him.
“God, I wish I had your willpower,” he replies.
“What? You gave in?”
“Yeah, I had a moment of weakness.”
It appears, while home for New Year’s Eve, he found an intriguing Bear-4-Bear porn site and got naked at the stroke of midnight on his mom’s computer. Initially, he thought the entire affair would remain a secret, except his mom had spyware installed on the computer, which transmits all of the Internet data to her pastor who, serving as her marriage counselor, oversees all web activity because her boyfriend has a cyber porn problem. Hence now, the pastor thinks her boyfriend is gay, which might be the root of their problem altogether.
“My mom’s livid!” Jon exclaims.
“Why? Because her pastor has an issue with her boyfriend being queer? Big deal. Aren’t most pastors gay anyway?”
“NO. That’s priests!” he snaps.
And now, he’s back to college, and I’m back to the drawing board, getting a hardon every time my boyfriend comes within five feet of me. It’s pathetic, really. I can’t touch myself. I can’t touch him. Who am I supposed to touch?
“What’s the matter? You’re acting crazy,” my boyfriend exclaims later that night when I freak out over the fact he’s not reciprocating my advances.
“I need passion,” I say, gathering my keys and heading out the door. “I can’t wait anymore. I don’t want us to become one of those sexless couples who beat off on the Internet.”
“Huh? Why would we become that?” he asks. Meanwhile, I’m jogging down the driveway, rattling my keys. “Hold on,” he calls. “I don’t get it. One minute you want sex. The next minute you don’t. What do you WANT?”
And breathless, I turn and stare at him silently, unsure of what to say. There are so many things I want, really. To feel safe, to feel beautiful, to feel loved, and I’m placing all that on him, because as my boyfriend, he’s the one who’s supposed to provide me that. I don’t look for it from outside forces, and it’s hard to find it inside myself when I’m consumed with making him happy. So to answer his question, plain and simple, I tell him, honestly, that I want to stop thinking about having sex with him so I can focus on loving myself.