He sighed. Definitely he wasn’t fucked up. The mood had nothing to do with fucking. He hadn’t had a lay for weeks. Or was it months? He wasn’t quite sure.
He didn’t want to be sure. He didn’t want to remember the last time he made love to a woman. It hadn’t been lovemaking at all, only a desperate effort to feel something.
Shame. That was the feeling he had managed to feel. No joy, no lust (well, maybe in the beginning of the act), no fulfilment.
Shame of wanting nothing more than a lay.
Shame of not completing the act.
He felt irritation when he remembered the words which lied that it didn’t matter at all, we can just lie here together, doing nothing.
He was fed up with doing nothing.
He dumped the woman. Or was it she who had left? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t care less. The woman was of no importance. Yes, it was true that he had been attracted to her and he had made some effort for her, but it had all been just a game of no greater excitement.
This had to be sadness, after all. No other explanation could be right. Maybe he needed a woman? Or just a lay? He couldn’t decide. Life was too complicated in that way.
It would be easier to have no needs. Irrational needs disturbed his thoughts, made him lose his concentration and that was bad. He liked to be aware. It was vital to be alert.
He wouldn’t be fucked anymore.