The other night I found myself in the awkward company of five lovely women. Two of them I have kissed. One sends me messages through an intermediary that she really digs me. And I think the other two would give me the honor of having sweet sex — if I made an effort. But why should I? What would be the point? Would I feel any better? Would THEY feel better?
When I came back to Peru four years ago I was completely spent. Basically I came to Cusco to lay down my head and die. My last hope for Love had failed in spectacular fashion. I could tolerate life without money, possessions and people but not HER. Impossible! Unbearable.
I started to think about the sordid history of my interactions with the opposite sex. (After you go to Machu Picchu a dozen times, there’s not much else to do here but think all day.) I was simultaneously shocked, and not so surprised, to discover that I could write sincere love letters to tens of women I know, or barely know, or even to those I’ve never seen except for their photos on Facebook. There may be hundreds of them. Potentially millions.
I could express various degrees of love, some less, some more, but there would be no doubt that everything I say to them would be absolutely from the heart. How could that be? What kind of insanity is this? What the fuck’s wrong with me? Is it me or is it men? I’m going to speak for all men and say it’s just me, just to get you off the hook, but do give it some thought.
There’s hardly a night I don’t go out with a different woman. There are only a few restaurants we go to so I’m sure the waiters think I’m the biggest player in town. If they only knew. I’m just having a good time without a hint of sex. I’m always careful not to cross the line between being friendly and flirtatious. No playing footsie under the table. No grabbing the hand in the movie theater. And certainly no sexting.
Sex is not out of my mind. Oh no. I just ignore it. Run from it. I just can’t let myself act like a robot in heat anymore. I hate to be manipulated and hormones are the worst. They yank me around like a pet chimp and I’ve had enough.
Screw you dick!
The problem is that sex ruins everything for me. Or should I say I ruin everything after sex? When the ecstasy ends in climax I usually, often, almost always, experience a dramatic loss of interest in the woman I just made passionate love to. And it doesn’t get any better as time goes by. I never thought about this pattern before. I just kept doing it. I have a penis, therefore I have sex.
Now it seems absurd. I laugh at my unquenchable sex drive and how easily it can be quenched. I pleasure myself to a catalogue of women who turn me on and it’s over in a couple of minutes. Before the poison leaves my testicles, I love them all. All in earnest. Then when it’s over, it’s over.
Crashed and burned by Love, what has risen from my ashes is not a phoenix but a tree. All I need is nourishment from the earth and warmth from the sun. I don’t crave anything. I don’t miss anything. I’m not searching for anything, or anyone. Just “being” is divine.
My hormones remind me I’m not a tree. Sooner or later they will break my resolve to resist women’s touch. As Chris Rock once joked, men can’t run fast enough to escape the clutches of sex. When I lose the race, I just hope and pray it’s not just because I’m a man and she’s a woman - again.
As Rumi put it, “Somewhere beyond man and woman, there is Eternal Love. I will meet you there.” The poor guy said no such thing. But I’m there.