The bottomless pit

I have a bountiful libido that has provided consistent drive for me to explore the limits, depths and extents of my fleshly desires. I take the pragmatic approach by saying that it hasn't always existed at the current high elevation. Occasionally, the drive for sex resembled an arid and empty desert landscape. But, mostly, it has rushed through my veins with a velocity that thins my blood and makes my head swim.

I masturbate, on average, two to three times a day. Rare are those days that i exceed five orgasmic combustions, but even rarer are those dark days when i don't have any. I anticipate over time that this will wane as my years progress, but that it hasn't at my plum age and, even more shockingly, increased with each passing birthday puzzles me. I'm not offering complaint about my heightened sexual hunger - i'd be foolish to protest about such things, for larger problems loom for others. I simply don't understand what contributes to my growing horniness, especially when conventional wisdom extols that i'd blown by my prime years ago. In the past, i viewed my voraciousness as a by-product of having few interpersonal outlets for my particular sexuality. The longer the lid remained tightened on the pressure cooker, the more kinetic energy that built up in the gathering steam. When i did find a willing partner for exploring my perversions, instead of a reduction of trapped vapor, the devilish synapses of my brain took this as encouragement to boil even more water.

As i tried to further understand the seismic activity of my loin, i theorized that the frenetic activity derived from a preponderance of boredom in the other factors of my life - aka idle hands. Perhaps my social interactions failed to stimulate, and thus, i turned my energy towards carnal contemplation. Maybe a dull turn in my career sent a spike in my fantasy generators? Fine, this is logical enough of an explanation, but what wasn't so logical was the fact that during the most exciting, invigorating, stressful and draining periods of my working life, my sexual radar sent out an even wider and more amplified signal. I was bound to run into one cutie with telegraphic eyelashes, morse-coding her heated vulnerability and uncertainty over to whom she should offer it. All i needed was that perplexed perspiration to bring my otherwise occupied boys to attention.

I don't have an answer to the question of my barometric libido's origins. Mysteries like these may not grace the decipherer with great blessings, so i do not emphatically seek a solution. Instead, i abide, make do, and, mostly endure periods of time (sometimes weeks-long) where my productivity gets short-circuited by the sweaty palms, abbreviated breaths and radiating heat from my groin caused by an overactive sensual fixation.

The impacts on my vocational aspirations aside, such slash and burn habits do not spare everyone. I've been in a few sexually immature and inept relationships, and my high-octane appetite has run rough-shod over my romantic counterpart. At the time, i believed that the dissatisfaction i felt from this dynamic came from my partner's inability to match and keep stride with me. I have also been in incredibly fulfilling, completely spiritual exchanges (as i am now) and yet my auto-erotic habits haven't lessened in any measurable way. I have learned that the existence of my ravenous appetite has little to do with my counterpart, and accepting this has done more service to quell my perfectionist streak than any attempts to fill up my erotic plate ever have.

The desire to fulfill every single one of my interests and niche-specific passions needn't fall on any one person's head. There is something peaceful in remaining just a few bites shy of full, walking away from the table with room for one more morsel. It signals that i understand that my place on this rock doesn't exist solely for me. That's a quiet serenity one can experience in the emptiness of a desert or atop the highest peak.