So I stopped masturbating just over a week ago.
I wanted to cut out one of my escapes. You know, so I can get back to real life. I sit with screens and play video games or fuck around on the internet or watch porn so I can forget just how empty my days are. The despair peaks right at the end of the day when I get back to my flat. I’m tired. My adrenal glands are pumped dry by stimulants. I guilt-trip myself for having done nothing productive that day, that I effectively extended my stay in hell for another twenty-four hours. So I let my sober-self press the eject button. I roll a joint and get into bed. I watch a DotA cast while chowing down on a shitload of McDonalds I picked up on the way home. I feel like masturbating, so I do. I keep watching videos until I pass out.
What’s great about this routine is that, for the most part, there’s no pain. I breathe in the smoke and let the cannabinoids punch through my alveolar walls into my bloodstream. A few seconds later, bam, I’m gone. No more angst, no more despair, no more hopelessness. Just a space where I feel no guilt indulging in impulsive gratification. On the other hand, it’s a sad fucking way to live.
The feeling of life being shit from wall to wall probably came to a head recently, because I installed some shit that blocks certain websites for a certain amount of time, in addition to quitting the masturbating. Shit was only going to get worse if I kept burying my head in chickenshit distractions.
It’s not easy: in lieu of turning my back on my issues I’m forced to confront them. The impulsive thoughts and anxiety about things I can’t control (especially the memory of my ex) permeates my mind constantly.
But, for the most part, it’s been working.
The urge to reproduce is built into every living thing. Anyone who tells you they ‘don’t need sex’ is a fucking liar. The preservation of a genetic lineage is hardwired into your fucking DNA. So when I cut off my sole sexual release, my body responded in kind. My balls feel like lead. I can feel the anger and frustration brewing in my chest. In the last few days, I’ve gone to gym regularly, actually wanted to study, and just seemed to have more motivation and self-control in general. Whenever I’m confronted with a choice of doing something right or fucking around, I tend to pick the former option, because Jesus Christ I need to get laid.
I told my therapist about it and he said that it was an example of me swinging to another extreme. He says I’ve got a black-and-white, ‘all-or-nothing’ mentality. I can only accept total commitment and a perfect result, or nothing at all. He said it’d be more realistic for me to limit jacking off to, like, once a week.
And he’s right. Probably. I read a study somewhere that said testosterone tends to peak after a week of sexual abstinence. And when I do get to have that one self-administered orgasm a week, God, is it good.
But I still don’t want to. Once the afterglow wears off, I know I’ll regret it. To me, there’s only two possible outcomes.
One is that I’m alone at my apartment, in my room, in my bed, with my hand down my jocks covered in spunk, saliva and cheap moisturizer.
The other is that I’m at my apartment, in my room, in my bed, having finished inside a 10/10 would-LTR, rolling over and enjoying a joint with a beautiful woman’s head resting on my chest.
To me, the latter scenario is the fucking finish line. It’s not so much about the act of getting laid itself: I could go out and have sex within hours with some slut off Tinder if I put a modicum of effort into it. What I want is a life where I can channel my vexations into healthy outlets, where I can slide into a cool, crisp bed every night, stone-cold sober, easily falling asleep knowing I’m one step closer to where I want to be than I was yesterday.