Sexual Frustration and Productivity
You know that awkward moment where you run into someone you were supposed to catch up with six months ago, but kept forgetting, and now you have to come up with some half-ass excuse as to why your life’s been so insanely hectic you haven’t been able to make time to see them?
And of course the reality is you’ve spend most evenings on the couch in your chocolate-stained pyjamas eating pizza from a cardboard box resting on your belly and watching re-runs of How I met your mother? That pretty much sums up my situation writing this blog now. I would love to give you, dear reader, some brilliant excuse as to why I haven’t written or posted anything in the last six, wait, twelve months, but the reality is, I just haven’t been fucked.
Or more accurately, I have been fucked. On a regular and wonderful basis. And now the burning desire I had to better myself as a human being through the art of creative and sarcastic writing has ebbed away along with my repressed sexual frustration. After all, why spend all that time and energy trying to improve myself when someone’s willing to have sex with me, just as I am?
Just to clarify, I haven’t become a nymph overnight - not that there’s anything wrong with that. If you can get off with random strangers who are sweaty, smell like beer and jack-hammer for 53 seconds before falling asleep, more power to you. In fact, I envy you and your user-friendly clitoris. You’re like the apple of female sexual design. Whereas I’m pretty sure NASA wrote the coding for mine. Or Beethoven, if you want a musical analogy. Picture the conductor up there, trying to keep different timing and rhythms for each hand, flailing them about, while simultaneously paying close attention to the needs of the orchestra. Despite their over-inflated egos, most men are not Beethoven. Not even close. They’d be lucky to tap their foot along to the timing.
So for the same reasons you wouldn’t get old Joe Blow from the local pub to conduct an orchestra, I’ve never really been a fan of one night stands. Always seemed like too much effort for too little return. But in February, I just happened to meet a lovely man who has, of his own accord (no blackmail or gun point involved) opted to spend time with me on a regular basis. Naturally I can only assume he’s a glutton for self-punishment and has some deep emotional scarring. But it’s worked out great for me.
And to answer your question, yes, he’s seen me eat pizza on the couch in my onesie. Yes, he knows I can’t cook and rely a little too heavily on frozen meals for basic sustenance. And yes, he knows about this blog. Apparently he’s okay with all of it.
The only downside I can see is the discipline needed to turn down sex in favour of productivity. Discipline I apparently don’t possess. Freud, or some old, withered dude like him, said civilisation was basically the result of sexual frustration. I totally get that. Why would you slave away to build some masterpiece of human architecture or engineering when you can just spend your days having sex and drinking fermented berry juice.
Admittedly, discipline and motivation were some of the scant few upsides to celibacy. There is, of course, a tipping point. It’s like a meridian graph. Too little sex and you’ll become unproductive, angry and frustrated. Too much sex and you’ll be too calm and satiated to chase sweeping self-improvement.
To quote a very famous and respected professor, true focus lies somewhere between rage and serenity.