There’s something about sleeping around that feels so superfluous. So self indulgent. Perhaps even childish, but at the very least joyless. Which is upsetting to me, because I used to sleep around all the time. I used to sleep around just for the sake of sleeping around, up until one day I realized that it wasn’t very fun anymore, and then I kept sleeping around in the hopes that it would become fun again eventually, and when it didn’t I stopped after a while. I miss that part of me that that liked sleeping around and didn’t feel like it was a god damn chore. Of course, back then, attraction was incidental, and I slept around just to sleep around, not because I was in love, or believed in love, or wanted a relationship, or was hoping for a phone call. It was a self fulfilling sport. Fucking with all the vanity removed – I didn’t need to look great, he didn’t need to look great, we didn’t have to respect each other or communicate. All I did was fuck. In the most distant way possible. Now I fuck with my emotions, and it just feels so risky, like a con job or a guaranteed failure. There is something perpetually elusive about fucking someone you love, a moment of sadness when it’s over, a feeling of emptiness. I don’t feel sad after I fucks someone I don’t love – it’s a conquest, not an act of kindness. If I don’t love him, the sooner he leaves the better. If I do love him – my body collapses without meaning if his dick is not inside me. I’d like to say that I love too much, my love is too great, and this is why I can’t stand to fuck the men I love, but that’s not true. It’s just that I’m selfish, and I have been destroyed before by wanting something I cannot possess and by having only for a moment the best that life had to offer me. The only cure for this is sex without love, but the medicine is worse than the disease, but maybe if I’m lucky the medicine will kill me.