Since I've remained virgin into adulthood, sex exists as a sort of itch which I can never truly scratch, an unknowable curiosity which tears away at my mind. In this way, I'm subjected to what is essentially a permanent state of deprivation, an unending frustration, a preference which I can never satisfy. Both my libido and the psychological need to be with a female became weaponized against my psyche, wounding me, and anything which serves as a reminder of my pain further amplifies the intensity of the suffering.
It seems to me that because I've been in an unending state of dissatisfaction, I've now taken to believing that any relief from this would be equal in permanency to my deprivation. Or at least I believe this on some subconscious level, as thinking about it logically reveals that I must be mistaken. Despite this, I can't help but fixate upon the idea of having sex. In my mind, sex is the unreachable horizon in the distance, similar to a lost eden of my past, a place where lasting fulfillment exists. I know that it isn't true, I know that if I were to fulfill this need, that the goalpost would be moved and I'd desire something else, or at the very least I'd simply desire more sex. But knowing this doesn't make the feeling disappear, and doesn't stop me from obsessing over this craving.
For me the idea of having sex (or even simply having any physical intimacy with a female) has entirely consumed my former ideal of happiness, usurping it with a desire which I can never fulfill. Well I suppose that notions of happiness always consist of the unfulfillable, as happiness only exists within our memories of the past, or as something to reach within the future, but it's never something which we experience within the present. Regardless, I believe this explains why any reminder of what I lack injures me so deeply. Sex has become an embodiment of my perpetual striving, and it's mention immediately takes me out of whatever I was doing to distract myself from longing. This results in a lot of media achieving the opposite of their intended purpose for me, only serving as monuments to my pain.
It seems to me that because I've been in an unending state of dissatisfaction, I've now taken to believing that any relief from this would be equal in permanency to my deprivation. Or at least I believe this on some subconscious level, as thinking about it logically reveals that I must be mistaken. Despite this, I can't help but fixate upon the idea of having sex. In my mind, sex is the unreachable horizon in the distance, similar to a lost eden of my past, a place where lasting fulfillment exists. I know that it isn't true, I know that if I were to fulfill this need, that the goalpost would be moved and I'd desire something else, or at the very least I'd simply desire more sex. But knowing this doesn't make the feeling disappear, and doesn't stop me from obsessing over this craving.
For me the idea of having sex (or even simply having any physical intimacy with a female) has entirely consumed my former ideal of happiness, usurping it with a desire which I can never fulfill. Well I suppose that notions of happiness always consist of the unfulfillable, as happiness only exists within our memories of the past, or as something to reach within the future, but it's never something which we experience within the present. Regardless, I believe this explains why any reminder of what I lack injures me so deeply. Sex has become an embodiment of my perpetual striving, and it's mention immediately takes me out of whatever I was doing to distract myself from longing. This results in a lot of media achieving the opposite of their intended purpose for me, only serving as monuments to my pain.
