For better or worse, I had sex today, thus ending my self-imposed experiment with celibacy. For those keeping count, it's been a few months since my last sexual encounter and I'm now convinced man was not meant to go so long with so little. Quite simply, the act itself is life-affirming and without it, my sense of optimism about life and the future is shrivels mightily until it's hard to believe it was ever there. The devious thing is that you think you're alright, when you couldn't be far enough from alright. Sex is...the closest thing we have to magic, in this dreary, monotonous life we lead.
How I had sex with this girl is like a scene from a Woody Allen or Mike Leigh movie. I don't mean the actual sex, but the way it was agreed upon. She was someone I knew, I cold-called her and asked if she'd like to and I promised her it would be special. She agreed and we picked a time and a place. She showed up, we had a few drinks, talked about life, politics, movies before getting up and retiring into the master bedroom (those who have been to my studio apartment, as well as those familiar with the spatial challenges of most New York apartments will recognize the sarcasm in that statment).
It was more tender than lustful, if truth be told, but it was exactly what I needed. I'm not ashamed to say that I'm at a place where it means more to me to be held, than to get off. The pressures of your twenties is true, on a multitude of levels.
I feel good, for a change. Now, how to sustain it.