The rich earthy smell of piss fills my nostrils as I leak into the unflushed toilet. That’s mostly what I do these days. That’s okay. I am getting more sanguine about my expectations.

I did a viagra and some caffeine so that I could cum, but you know what gave me the most comfort? Changing my bed. My boy Jefferson had pucked on it, and yoga stretching. Sexual release used to have such power over me. Now it is a sad attempt to recapture my past, and love for my father, who only made me ashamed of myself as a sexual being.

I still relentlessly pursue it even though it is giving me diminishing returns and costs me my dignity everytime.

Even though I spend enormous amounts of time pursuing it I still don’t really see myself as a sexual being. I don’t really know what I am. I feel ashamed to think of what arouses me. No human being could ever meet the expectations that I have for the act of sex.

Because that’s all it is, the act of sex, no follow through, no attempt to know another.

I know that I can feel love. My love language is touch. I have a yearning. I don’t know if it goes any further than that? I am so afraid of getting hurt that I don’t take that first step. All I see is a chasm in front of me. Full of what ifs.