Into the Void in BookThree: Flight Log 2016

WARNING: THE CONTENT OF THIS ENTRY MAY BE SEXUALLY EXPLICIT. LANGUAGE, SUBJECT, AND CONTENT ARE ALL OF A POSSIBLY OFFENSIVE OR TRIGGERING NATURE. NO PROMISES… BUT JUST IN CASE… YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.

So… with life in the absolute gutter for my wife and I (in many respects; I suddenly feel the need to couch my response by saying… we are not homeless and we are not drowning in debt; technically… we’re fairly lucky. But our day-to-day life is not good). Anyway, life hasn’t been great for us of late. Which means our sex life has returned to how it once was… meaning, mostly non-existent. Well… I suppose it would be more honest to say (strictly speaking) non-existent. No reason to add “mostly” when it isn’t actually referring to anything. That being said… I have wanted to interject a little sexuality into my life. Or hell… beauty of any kind. For someone who was once described as an Aesthete… I’m dying out here.

Typically, I would have taken care of this by now. I would have looked at dozens of beautiful women from all over the world embodying a sense of beauty that also reflected their own cultural aesthetic… I then would have moved to Pornography with the expressed intention of masturbating… and if that still wasn’t enough I’d switch into Erotic Audio Books allowing me the joy of both a story and the audio I so desperately crave. Well… I haven’t been able to do that either.

So… no sexual intercourse… no cuddling or anything from the wife… no immersion in beauty… no masturbation.... and I can definitely tell that it has an effect on me.

I consider a few years ago… hell, on any college campus of any kind… I would love the slide into Autumn. There was more clothing being worn and so (while many would lament the disappearance of cleavage/legs/skin/etc) I would celebrate the diversity and wonder of fashion. Autumn is, or can be, the greatest season for fashion.

So… from every angle… from my sexual needs to seeking beauty to stumbling upon beauty… I feel.... in need.

For that reason, I have given a great deal of consideration to writing another story… or finishing a story… in my more adult-themed book. And yet… knowing I can… or could… and even wanting to… I find that I don’t. And it makes me wonder if it is because
(1) I want those things in my life again so much that I can’t settle on an imaginary fabrication; or
(2) I feel such a hole in my own existence due to their absence that I can’t find the will to create what isn’t there.

Ah well. Like usual in my mind, it seems, that may be a distinction without a difference.