When I first realized that what I really wanted from life was not the sexual company of men—or anyone else—it was like a bare bulb lighting up a dark room.
For most of my life, I’ve been a dedicated admirer of the male form. Also, a regular and enthusiastic pawer thereof. I freely admit it. They’re so masculine and hairy—lovely beasts, they are.
But, you know, life changes you. It slaps you upside your fat head and says, “Come on, woman! You have better things to do with your time than to get naked with men! Sure, it’s fun! Sure, it’s a great way to socialize. But seriously, don’t you want to know what it’s like not to so much as think about it?”
And lo, it came to pass and it was, indeed, very good.
Menopause was a tremendous help with that. But these days, I find that Coronavirus is at its very best with respect to maintaining celibacy. There’s nothing quite like the prospect of knocking boots with a dude as people drop dead all over the world. No, thank you.
But thanks, Coronavirus, for making the lives of single, celibate women that much easier. As the virus rages, we sit on it, knowing that people can be silly, but that most of those silly people are not quite that crazy.
Anyone happening upon this post may think I’m the crazy one for having turned my back on the apparent Holy Grail of human existence—sex. Wherever you go there sex is. It’s in your face as well as in your pants. Everything is sex. Hamburgers, motor cars, cheese, condos, chartered accounting, and cabinetry—all of it. We are living in an increasingly sexualized and sex-obsessed world.
Tell me I’m lying. Turn on your TV and watch that “juice” run down the side of that burger. Sexy, right? Or how about that snazzy car, penetrating the world as it whizzes past, from various lascivious angles. I won’t even mention the others. I can thank Coronavirus for that much, for it has bridled even my mind.
So, not crazy. Just tired. Tired of being disappointed, mostly and no, that’s not about my expectations. I’ve managed to keep those in check and for that, I thank the men I’ve gotten naked with. Thank you, former sex partners, for the realism you’ve injected into my approach to living a happy life in which I expect nothing and am never disappointed.
Does that sound unfair? I’m sorry, other men reading this. Yes. I’m aware—”not all men” (raises fist in air). Some of you are genuinely talented; I salute all five of you!
And that was a joke. Mostly, I’m celibate because it feels like the right thing to be. Just for me. Not necessarily you, but you never know. Celibacy has allowed me to sit in the unknowing of this bizarre pandemic, with only the occasional, muttered eruption about what a pain in the ass it is. I wash my hands. I wear my mask. So far, so good.
Without wondering if I’ll ever have sex again, I can live in the disruption and lack of platonic human contact peacefully. If you’re one of the millions of single people wondering if you’ll ever get naked and personal with someone again—I feel your pain. You may be eyeballing that paunchy bus driver with the questionable hygiene on your way to work or your perpetually stoned neighbor—that’s how bad the pain has gotten. Don’t lie.
Just know that your sexuality is still there. When it’s finally time to go get your pipes cleaned, everything will be in fine, working order. You will remember where to put your hands and everything else. It’s human nature.
And maybe that’s the real reason I’ve chosen not to let mine out to play for the time being. Maybe I just needed a time-out. Once Coronavirus packs its bags and leaves and the door has slammed it on the ass as it does so, we’ll see how things shake out. Maybe I’ll be ready to allow my inner sex beast out to play.
Or maybe I’ll just stay celibate and continue enjoying the inner peace.
Yes. I think I will.