Sex is great, I think we can all agree on that. Most of the time, anyway. There is the excitement and headrush of being with someone new or the content, loving arms of someone familiar.
It’s sex by yourself that gets weird. We all do it… and differently I would suppose. I’ve never known a blind man to blame masturbation for his condition, or proof of any of those other myths about touching yourself. Apparently some people have issues with it. What’s the big deal? It’s your body.
I know for me it is almost an afterthought at times, something to do because I’m bored and need a thrill. But even if I lit candles and dressed up, it would be predictable and thus, disappointing, because I know exactly what I’m going to do. I don’t get lonely, as my fantasies usually involve at least one other person. But I can totally read my own mind. There’s no mystery… and not even the best R&B can solve that.
Sex alone becomes routine, but we all still go back. The way a hungry person finds the refrigerator. It’s just so efficient. No need to bother your partner, if you have one. But there’s no cuddling or whispers afterward. There’s no phone call or flowers the next morning, no matter how great it was. I know I am not the only one who looks in the mirror and feels a little used. I might as well keep a $50 on the dresser just to emphasize the cold and business-like way I treat myself. I have to come to terms with the fact that sex with myself is basically a booty call.
