Sunday, December 1, 2013

Involuntary Celibacy and Me; or TMI

One of the themes of the manosphere is that "sex" is a commodity that women control and men will go to any lengths to obtain.  Women use "sex" to manipulate men and get them to do their bidding, or else cruelly deny men whom they capriciously deem unworthy.  Men, on the other hand, require sex to be fully masculine.  It is their biological imperative to pollinate every fresh flower they see; it is to attract potential hotties that they are driven to labor, to achieve, to acquire.  For example, according to at least one "incel" (see previous post), JFK did not become a senator and then a president in order to please his striving father, or even to fulfill his own ambition for power; he was driven by his innate need for nooky.

It strikes me that both men and women share a tendency to blame the other gender for their own base impulses or thwarted desires.  One thing that women don't generally do, however, is feel "entitled" to the sexual services of men.

Now, I know the Angry Guys will say that is because women, just by virtue of having vaginas, can have all the sex they could wish for.  But that isn't exactly true.  Sure, even a flabby old crone like me knows of at least one notoriously seedy bar in my area where I could find a fuck buddy in ten minutes flat (make that five if I were buying).  I could find a partner for most of these incel guys at the same place, if they would just ratchet down adjust their expectations of what it is they believe they "deserve" -- just a mite.

I know a lot of women who are lonely and horny, who spend many nights yearning and burning, writhing alone in their beds, listening to vintage Sarah McLachlan and gnashing their teeth.  I know how that feels:  I have been one of them myself.

I have had several periods of "involuntary celibacy".  One of these periods lasted nearly five years, which, by anyone's reckoning, is a long dry spell.  It followed a seven year relationship with a man who had finally put me out of my misery broken up with me by announcing on the phone he was marrying someone else.  I was devastated, alternately in denial (spinning fantasies of winning him back) and suicidal (cuz that would show him).  It was a period of extreme depression and social isolation punctuated with bursts of manic, impulsive activity:  I moved several times, started and abandoned three different jobs. 

I had gained a lot of weight, and was living in rural Colorado, where I hardly ever met anyone, much less any eligible bachelors.  Still, I was a young lady with a high libido.  This was in the late eighties, the burgeoning era of internet dating, and I was among the first to try to hook up that way.  There were long, passionate e-mail exchanges with a bipolar lad in Canada and a slightly demented elderly gentleman in California, but to no avail.   

This was back when I still identified myself as straight, although even if I had realized I was in fact "hetero-flexible," I doubt it would have improved my plight.  Looking back, eighty percent of the problem was that I was functioning under a dark cloud of depression, practically exuding desperation, and obviously needed therapy (which I eventually got) even more than a roll in the hay.

This was also the period that I discovered pornography erotica and mail order, uhm, marital aids.  So it wasn't a complete waste...

A friend who was in similar straits used to joke that if she could order a man like a pizza, she would have tipped generously.  We joked about taking up horseback riding, about telephone poles, about the gnawing hunger to be taken, to be well and truly fucked, to be royally rogered while we thrust our noses into some random stranger's hairy armpit and inhaled his musky pheromones. 

We were, to put it bluntly, mad with unrequited lust.

I even thought about hiring a male prostitute.  (This was, after all, the decade book-ended by "American Gigolo" and "My Own Private Idaho", so the concept of men commodifying their sexuality had become a thing.)  I had no idea how to procure one, however, especially in my dusty little town snuggled high in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.

Even if I had stumbled upon Richard Gere (or even better, Brad Pitt) in some cowboy bar, I couldn't yet un-bundle my desire for sex from my desire to be desired.  And I don't think these angry male "incels" or frustrated PUAs are much different.  Whether male or female, we look to sex with a partner to provide confirmation of our own desirability. 

I broke my five year record as soon as I had moved to a larger city and found a career that (at least temporarily) I enjoyed and which put me in contact with a broader array of like-minded people.  In fact, I proceeded to make up for lost time by having a string of casual encounters colorful off-color adventures that I immortalized in another blog.  

Now I am an old(ish) woman.  My circumstances and needs are quite different.  I haven't had penetrative sex for a number of years, and I don't miss it.  Yet I can still remember the pain and frustration of my own days of involuntary celibacy, and sympathize with those men (and women) who rail against it.  


  1. My God, I remember puberty. I was this raging ball of lust. Unfortunately for me, I went to boarding school, where there was no privacy so I couldn't DO anything about it. I nearly went mad.

  2. Maybe it's for the best that I've never gotten anything out of penetrative sex. No orgasms, no pleasure, only soreness.

    Fortunately, the solution to all that plugs right into the wall and is always willing.

    1. I'm a bit similar in that I seem to be more or less asexual: I experience sexual attraction to women (and the occasional very pretty man), but have a pretty feeble sex drive, and have never felt any great need to have sex (as I sometimes put it, "have sex" never seems to be on my list of things to do for the day). Having lurked on a lot of Manosphere blogs, I've come to see my asexuality as a blessing and even a strength; some of those guys are so obsessed with getting their next "lay" or "bang" that they strike me as being like junkies who care about nothing but where their next "fix" is coming from. According to one Manosphere blogger who I stopped following a while back (mainly because he ended up becoming just as nutty as the rest of them), though, such desperation for sex is actually seen as a strength by women. That's right: if you're a guy who's not such a slave to his lust that he'd have sex behind a dumpster with someone riddled with VD if no other alternative was available, you're disgustingly "weak" in women's eyes. Go figure!

    2. I have thought about "meeting up" with the asexual crowd, but I would feel a bit deceptive, since my lack of libido has everything to do with my flat-lined hormonal panel courtesy of my hysterectomy several years ago. In other words, I certainly wasn't "born this way." Occasionally I complain to my MD (on behalf of my SO) about my complete lack of interest in the sexual act. But more and more I accept it as a blessing. However, lack of interest in the physical sexual act =/= lack of interest in love and romance, does it? Thank God.

  3. I've conflicted feelings about incels. On the one hand, I think far too many people show a disturbing lack of sympathy towards them, mocking them and making light of their pain; on the other, the way some of them wallow endlessly in self-pity (and misogyny), and drone on and on about the "living hell of involuntary celibacy" (the exact wording they use) drives me up the freaking wall!


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