Drugs will forever be a part of our lives, whether it’s nicotine, weed, alcohol, cocaine, XTC, roofies, poppers, ketamine, speed or the most dangerous drug of all: Intimacy.
The high Intimacy provides is unrivaled by any substance, but like all drugs, Intimacy is only fun by the token of its risk: Dosage is key and I for one suck at dosing Intimacy. Go easy on the Intimacy and you can’t help but crave a little extra. Go overboard and you OD on your own misery.
Added to this, Intimacy is the one drug you can’t dose by yourself. At the very least it requires two people to get it right. Achieving a successful high on Intimacy is like walking toward each other on a high wire and exchanging a hug without plunging to your death.
On the surface dating is about finding ways to fit genitals into other people and the gay scene is unbelievably facilitating in that respect. Scratch the surface however and you quickly find people hiding behind their genitals, people like Guy #114, #115, #116 and #117, people whose genitals led their tepid quest for Intimacy.
Guys #114 through #117 all had one thing in common: I had nothing to offer them except my body. It’s not that I didn’t like them or that I didn’t find them attractive. I simply had no Intimacy to give. Not everybody you meet is someone you want to cuddle on a high wire. At the same time everyone – and I do mean everyone – is constantly on alert for someone willing to do Intimacy together. We say we’re not in it for the feelings the same way people read Playboy for the articles: We lie.
The result is a scene where everybody tries to maintain his balance and when sex becomes a commodity, people tend to plummet.
Guy #114 was a kindergarten teacher. I taught him a lesson by laying him down on my countertop for a good five minutes. It was fun, but all the while I couldn’t help but imagine this slutty piece of human standing in front of a dozen toddlers singing songs about Old MacDonald and his farm. Sure, kindergarten teachers can be greedy bottoms as much as anyone, but I’m not the type who enjoys thinking about toddlers during sex.
Guy #115 was a reclusive Asian who for reasons I will never understand neglected to shave his armpits. They were sweaty and disgusting. He contacted me many times after our first and only date, but his armpits were sweaty and disgusting.
Guy #116 had a gorgeous body featuring an interesting skin condition. He assured me it wasn’t contagious, but I wasn’t quite comfortable going to fifth base with someone who needed Vaseline literally everywhere but his fifth base. Still, when his skin condition indeed turned out to be benign, I met up with him a few more times, until he became irritated I couldn’t meet up with him every week. Irritation soon led to anger, to which I tend not to respond.
Guy #117 was unremarkably cute. The sex was unremarkably pleasant. He wanted to meet up another time, but I deemed him too unremarkable. The end.
If Guys #114 through #117 would ever ask me why I held off on seeing them again, I would tell them I was just in it for the sex, but it would of course be a lie. I lie as often as I’m lied to. We all know we lie, but it’s not like we have a choice: Intimacy is a dangerous drug. We all crave it as much as we fear it and when we find it all the strength in the world isn’t enough to prevent us from getting addicted to it. I didn’t reject Guys #114 through #117 because the sex was bad or because there was anything fundamentally wrong with them. They simply couldn’t give me the high I was looking for and I let them plummet the moment I realized they looked for it in me.
I’m an addict, willing to sacrifice anyone and anything in search of my fix. It’s what I do to people. It’s what people do to me. One day I might find an addict like me, someone equally bad at dosing Intimacy. It will be awesome, mind blowing, overwhelming and possibly life shattering.
I want it to be today, but I hope the day never comes.
“Ballad of the sad young men”
Sing a song of sad young men, glasses full of rye
All the news is bad again, kiss your dreams goodbye
All the sad young men, sitting in the bars
Knowing neon lights, and missing all the stars
All the sad young men, drifting through the town
Drinking up the night, trying not to drown
All the sad young men, singing in the cold
Trying to forget, that they’re growing old
All the sad young men, choking on their youth
Trying to be brave, running from the truth
Autumn turns the leaves to gold, slowly dies the heart
Sad young men are growing old, that’s the cruelest part
All the sad young men, seek a certain smile
Someone they can hold, for just a little while
Tired little girl, does the best she can
Trying to be gay, for a sad young man
While a grimy moon, watches from above
All the sad young men, who play at making love
Misbegotten moon shine for sad young men
Let your gentle light guide them home again
All the sad, sad, sad, young men