Often, I think I can get by without love. I don’t really know what it’s like, so I don’t really know what I’m missing. I keep hearing about it, and it sounds wonderful. But really, to me, it’s the stuff of myth. And anyway, I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I tripped over it.
Sometimes I think I can live without sex. I’ve taken more driving tests than I have had sexual encounters, and I’ve forgotten nearly everything about both. And as unsatisfying as it can be, masturbation can take the edge off the yearning, the craving. The lust. It’s manageable, if not sufficient.
But sometimes I feel like falling to my knees and begging for someone to just touch me. To hold me. I feel like howling just thinking about it. I feel so desperate, I almost feel sick (I have had to stop to cry while writing this paragraph). Again, I don’t really know anything else. The memories of other people’s skin against my own are little more than ghosts. Yet maybe this is the hardest thing to live with. I really don’t know how I will get through the next few decades (years?) without it – short of praying to a god I don’t believe in for a numbness I don’t dare expect will come.