The Art of Sexual Starvation—Why is it that Humans Desire Sex?

I stood close to the door, holding my thumping chest—waiting for the rain to stop pouring so that I too could dance, but pity, I’m just never going to dance under the rain. Creation is funny yet a miserable thing—where one is compelled into desiring sex from the opposite right at the onset of puberty.

I too, as my body tried to retrace its origins, all but the act of making love to a girl is what stood out from the rest. It is as if I was programed to want to do that, and if unfulfilled—I shall crave till my lungs left me. I’m nothing but a sexually frustrated human, one who knows that life is a tragic little thing—only to be lived today, and tonight is just a sexual conundrum.

But what does it really mean to want to desire sex so much and not get any. Well, to the cosmos that change constantly, I tried to walk away, but my mind won’t stop narrating—of the beauty in love making. But of all, it’s the connection to my opposite that transpires such sensually—there is no one to bother.

And the mind, it gets depressed for not getting what it needs, in the midst of chaos—and manic towels, there is no ease. So what is it that I do? You see, the scent of a pretty woman, it kills me every time I try to walk, and if things aren’t settled, I start walking on water for a few miles only to realize that I’m the unlucky sea-shell at the bottom of the ocean.

To be sexually starved, it’s the thing that I have known to well, and today as I continue to write—there is a shift in the epitome of my thoughts. I think, but of all that is there to ponder upon—my mind shatters and it explodes but it is a good feeling too. It’s the art in misery that wants me to continue writing.

I’m so young, even my testosterone levels peak and looks at me angrily for the starve I share with them. But it’s a thing, which I’m not experiencing any sooner, but hold me tight as the tides wash me unendingly. While the music shall suffice, I should find a way to control my urges—things which will never happen—I know so well.

And beauty in never any quieter than an adult wanting to make love to a woman who just isn’t there. You see, every pretty flower is already writing love songs with a few hundred others, and there is just no space for me there.

Sex is, I think it’s only meant to starve us till we die. And all girls are heartless, because they know that the neuro-chemistry of the male is so reliant on them so nothing would make sense if things aren’t met in the midst of wanting—or the upsurge of raw emotions.

We always want to fly, but the abstractness in each wing that makes us do that—it’s the thing that drives us to our judgment. And I, a secluded little creature—all that I ever desired was to make love to a girl, and write her songs on a thin, flattery paper so that I too could feel what it meant to be a human—for once at least.

-Yogesh Chandra