Some kind of far and deep metamorphoses has been taking place in me the past few years. I’ve grappled with some of its details here on this electronic stage, in posts such as Flat Sex and Taboo Sex as Mythic Fuel.
Intimacy is a very different chemistry than sexual attraction. Men tend to fear intimacy. I know I do. I feel like I’m giving over my soul. No way. Sex is easier than love, by far, especially for men. And post orgasm rejection comes as easily as removing the condom.
In the long run, having sex is less important than intimacy. I know that seems obvious to many, but sex and its trappings in the gay world can create a quagmire of identity. To my surprise, I’m finding that a deeply felt connection can lead to beautiful and rewarding sexual experiences. But the walls of self protection and self deception are high and the foundations deep. The house is confused with the man.
The house metaphor carries through my life. I have always lived more clearly externally than internally. My soft, chewy center is well camouflaged by my friendly, affable exterior. I focus on the exterior to fulfill my desire to be accepted and loved, but my vulnerability remains hidden. And that exterior takes time to maintain. It becomes self perpetuating. The house becomes me. But I remain, the inner child wanting to play, the faerie struggling in a man’s world, the artist trying to shape chaos, experimenting, the boy fearing rejection by his father, by anyone, the explorer wanting to wander and get lost, to find new lands.
I’m finding that just allowing myself to know these intimate personas is the greater battle. Looking in the mirror, I only see the shell. The inside is hidden even to me. But that is changing.
Digiart by Veach