I pinpointed the moment when the romance and spontaneity within my own life was spluttering and being spurned by my overactive libido when I attempted to reignite a couple of lukewarm romances that were well and truly past their used by dates. With all the grace of a teenaged boy celebrating the discovery of his first pubic hair, I turned on the charm offensive with two former flames from yesteryear to little to no avail. All the while I was at Falls Festival, surrounded by young, beautiful and frivolous revellers as a performer no less. This experience left me feeling pretty darn flat. I was defeated. A man with no game. A boy sans the courage to face potential rejection in the face of the uproarious joy of success. But how come?
It was with great personal contempt that I concluded I had become content with the easy option. And now the seemingly easy option had become an even harder task than what I had originally perceived to be the difficult and time consuming option. Overnight, as the clock struck 2015, I acknowledged that something had to give. Maybe it was the remnants of the John Butler Trio issuing a melancholy demand of a similar nature, maybe it was the inevitable end of festival blues. Either way, a change was gonna come.
The least I could do was swallow my pride and admit I was not taking the risks I had formerly prided myself on taking. With monstrous trepidation I challenged myself to stop the endless flow of settling for empty self-pleasure and occasional casual sex and rise above my own apathy. I know dear reader, that this sounds like one of those typical 20-something responses to correct innate behaviour, but hear me out. I would come to reclaim the throne I once owned as the Master of my Domain and look upon my subjects with great personal pride and curiosity. I would give up my hand for thirty days and any hand that occasionally feeds it too. I apologise for the obvious and relatively uncreative euphemism. I didn’t know that I would be able trust myself to last one day, let alone 30 of them but to my own shoulder shrug of non-committal, self-satisfaction (not the good kind), I have entered double digits and feel a lot more confident that I can achieve the holy grail of the anti-virgin… thirty days without achieving nature’s triple 20×3 (Onnnnnnnneeeee hundreeeeeddddddd and eiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiighty).
Surviving my first boozy weekend since New Years without succumbing to pleasure-town was not easy. I had an eventful catch up in a Sorrento car park that nearly brought me to my knees in a way an engaged virgin on heat must feel in the lead up to his or her wedding day, on Friday evening. I had a run-in with an old flame that fortunately ended in the conclusion that we had both moved on despite the collective desire to return to the glory days… if it weren’t so complex. I had managed a few drunken conversations with women who either dismissed me as a wild beast or accepted me as a troubled soul searching for some kind of clarity. The afore mentioned variety were inexplicably outnumbering the latter… I mean, come on, it wasn’t like I was sporting a horrible backyard haircut and a despicable ensemble to boot!
Okay, Okay, I get your point. However, there were still soul-enriching successes, an arranged dinner with a woman from Greece, a hearty conversation with a few young professionals and an awkward kiss on the lips with an attractive, buxom brunette that left me full of optimism. I will not return to my old ways of ending my night chasing tail at the cost of my own quickly diminishing dignity anymore! At least not until the start of February… (Seasons change)
On reflection, single life is a fluctuating state of personal fulfilment. In an instance it can change from tremendously rewarding and then quickly recede into a frustrating lack of opportunity. 2014 was a bumper year in regard to connecting with people (and you know, other leisurely ideals), mainly on the back of my overseas travels, however back home I am not the exotic anomaly I was when I was in Tokyo or Montreal. I am yet another private school boy from Kew with some stubble, a few party shirts and an overinflated ego. So much so that another former lover of mine, who I have not seen for over three years told me frankly that the only reason she resumed contact was her curiosity on whether I was still keen to pursue her. Of course, the answer was yes on my behalf and sadly no, on hers.
This again reinforced the requirement to regain control over my personal life. And although I feel that pull of #yolo and the lust that rages within I know that achieving 30 days without wilting will be hugely beneficial for my own state of mind. Concluding that I was bordering on obsessed with conquering the beds of friends, acquaintances and strangers alike is certainly more than enough motivation to reclaim the title of master of my domain… Even more so after re-reading the sentence and shuddering at how animalistic it makes me sound. I suppose in the end we are a lot closer to the animal kingdom than we all care to acknowledge, and part of the reason I am entering into this jape of a transaction is to cure myself of the Catholic guilt that intermittently clouds my better judgement.
However, I feel fresh. George Costanza-fresh when he is forced into abstinence. So fresh, so clean. Days 10-20 await.