My sex life, like my dating life, is nothing to write home about. It’s nothing to write in a blog about, either. Hence why I don’t write about sex very often.
So it seems that I am forced to live vicariously through the sex lives of my friends.
Lately it seems everyone is getting laid more than me. And by more I mean anything more than once in two weeks. Because that would be one time more in the last two weeks than I’ve had sex.
Can you tell I’m a tad sexually frustrated right now?
The online world has been extremely unkind to me lately, and I’m about ready to dump it again. As I swiftly approach 40, I’m starting to sense that I’ve become “yesterday’s news” and overall highly un-marketable. Sure, there are things I could do to improve my odds– join a gym, ride my bike more often, change my diet, sleep more, have liposuction– the possibilities are endless, but to do all of them requires a great deal more resources than I have on hand at the moment.
I won’t even address dating. Anything that hasn’t happened once in the last 2 years or more should not even be brought up.
I have been getting better about getting out and doing things, however. I went to dinner and had drinks afterward with some friends on Saturday, and did pretty much the same again on Sunday. So that was fun. No complaints about being cooped up all day long this time– although the weather has been so oppressively hot and humid lately it isn’t all that fun to go out during the day anymore, anyway.
But today’s post is titled “Blue Balls” because, quite frankly, I just don’t know what to do about my sexual and/or dating situation anymore. I’m tired of empty sex. Probably the reason why I don’t get laid so much anymore is because I don’t really even seek it out anymore. Even when I’m online, and I see a guy to whom I am attracted, I don’t bother making a first move to say “hi” or “what’s up.” First of all, he probably won’t reply anyway (90% of the guys online don’t), and second, if he actually IS interested in something, to hook up just for meaningless sex is so much work, and I’m tired of putting forth the effort for such a measly reward.
So I just don’t bother with it. And I sit there and grow more and more sexually frustrated, until I’m about ready to explode.
You see where this is going.
No… it’s not going to the nearby bath house. I can’t fit one of their skimpy little towels around my fat ass anyway.
No… it’s not going to the bar with the dark and seedy “back room.” I have never been a big fan of anonymous sex.
In fact, I don’t know where this is going. And that’s part of the problem.
I just don’t know what to do with myself. (Sorry for the Burt Bachrach allusion.)
But I’m going to do my best to figure it out.