Throwing in the Jizz Towel

So– I no longer give a shit about getting laid.  Or I do, on a visceral level, like if I see a hot young chick with big tits jogging down the street I get horny.  Whenever the nineteen year old mailroom girl comes by to deliver the mail, I get all pheromonal.  We have a thing together, a flirtatious thing.  I need to figure out how to make something happen with that.

Except I don’t, because that’s the thing.  Aside from the most basic animal lust, I do not give a shit about getting laid.  I will not go through the slightest effort to get laid.  I will not say or do anything at any time that is any different than if I were not trying to get laid.  Which I’m not.  Trying to get laid.

Like– twice in the past few weeks I’ve had good first dates with hot, reasonably interesting girls that I’ve gotten along well with.  Perfectly solid girls.  4 stars on OKCupid for sure.  Each time we ended up back at the apartment and it got physical; in one case the chick wouldn’t take out her puss cuz she had a yeast infection, in the other I ended up performing oral sex on her.  So while obviously I tried to have sex on the first date and it didn’t happen, sex on the second date, which in both cases we had quasi-planned that night– sex on the second date was fucking GUARANTEED.  And both times, I blew it off.  I did the thing that girls do to me– I texted them that day that I couldn’t make it without proposing a specific other time that we could go out.  Because it was too hot, I was too hung over, the drive was going to be a pain in the ass… I did not make the simple effort just to go and harvest the fucking that I had painstakingly sewn on those first dates.  I could not be bothered to reach my hand up and pluck the ripe fruit from the tree.  Too much work.  These girls would have had to volunteer to come over to my place some night when I was already drunk basically.

And as little as two months ago there is NO WAY this would have been the case.  But I just can’t do it anymore.  I refuse to put any effort whatsoever into even guaranteed new pussy.  What the fuck happened?  Is it my testosterone?  Is the grueling, humiliating grind of work just turning me into such an omega monkey that my nuts are basically falling off? My whiny priss of a boss constantly, snivelingly chewing me out over tasks that are so far beneath me that if anyone I knew walked into my office and saw what I actually do, I would be so mortified that I could basically never speak to that person again?  The fact of being a subordinate, the low man on the totem pole, to people who are beneath you intellectually– has this, after years of being able to put up with it– has it finally gotten so bad that it actually unmanned me?

But I mean, I still jack off every day.  I still lift weights.  I still get just as physically horny, and just as viscerally enraged at the constant humiliations of my eleven hour per day low paying intellectually unsatisfying shitbag of a career– I still fantasize about tearing apart my boss’s tiny frail frame like dismembering a chicken wing. I still have, you know, secondary sex characteristics.  I’m not growing tits.  I don’t think my hormone levels have changed that drastically.  Certainly not drastically enough to make me not want to get laid with hot new ass, for Christ’s sake.

So what is it? It’s not that I don’t want to fuck, it’s just that I don’t want to work for it– at all.  And I think the real issue with these chicks is that while the conversation flowed pretty well after three or four eleven per cent alcohol beers, they didn’t really excite me as human beings.  I could not see myself in a relationship with either one of them based on this one date, and I’m tired of doing it by rote.  I was certainly being funny and telling them things they hadn’t heard before, but it didn’t feel like i was hearing shit I hadn’t heard before. It felt like work.

I want somebody who gives something back, for Christ’s sake.  I want to walk away from a conversation feeling like “wow,” you know?  Feeling like, holy shit, that girl is fucking amazing– I want to feel  a little nervous like I better be on top of my game with her.  I better not fuck up. I don’t want to just feel like “oh, she’ll never fuck me” or “that ass is in the bag.”  That’s what happens, when girls can’t engage you with little known facts about the potato being closely related to nightshade or whateverthefuck– it becomes a mercenary game of would she fuck me can I fuck her I better be funny I better get her drunk; every conversation becomes completely agenda-driven and one-sided in the venal pursuit of ass.  The pursuit of a piece of new pussy to keep the ego demons at bay for another two months. And I just can’t fucking do it anymore.

The problem is, you never meet girls who will wake you up at all, ever, anywhere.  There are less girls out populating the parties and bars and streets and grocery stores than there are men to begin with, and if they don’t look like Rocky Dennis they have a boyfriend, or they’re not going to come up and start talking to you– you have to go up and talk to them while they hang back expectantly like dance, monkey, dance.  Either they’re too shy to come out with the trivia and jokes and secrets and stories and whatnot that are going to engage you or they flat out don’t have them to begin with– just being a chick who doesn’t look like Rocky Dennis has been enough to sate their social needs.  But still– even if they don’t need to be cool to get laid, aren’t chicks just fucking interested in shit?  Do chicks ever walk out of the apartment at seven in the morning and see two hummingbirds fighting or something and then go read about hummingbirds on wikipedia for forty-five minutes to learn about why they are such surprisingly aggressive birds?  Or maybe they aren’t, I’m making that up. But don’t chicks get interested in this kind of shit and want to talk to someone about it?

Anyway.  Fuck it, you know, this getting laid for the sake of getting laid.  Now I’ll have more time to concentrate on Xbox.