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A couple of nights ago my roommate asked me:

How can you emotionally detach yourself enough to have sex like that?

Casual sex, she meant. Sex without being in love. The question wasn't malicious, or judgemental - merely curious. At that moment, I beat around the bush, trying to explain myself but not really giving her a straight answer. I only realized what I really wanted to say later - I couldn't give her an answer because I didn't have one.

I have had sex without being in love, but I am not emotionally detached.

I would like to think that after my various sexual exploits, forays, and misadventures, I am emotionally tough enough to use pretty people for my pleasure; to swallow them up, like a seasoned man-eater/lady-killer/etc. The truth is that I'm not; and I can't. I've become more mature, practical and experienced in dealing with sex and love and relationships. I've learnt how to get over people; and how to appreciate sex for the many different facets it has to offer, besides a mere expression for being 'in love'. 

Underneath it all, I'm still a burgeoning romantic.

I'm looking for something. I'm not sure what. Not love - not quite that. I have become disillusioned with "love." Quote-unquote-love, the love of Valentine's Day and red hearts and chocolates and flowers and poetry and diamond rings and forever. People try to assign this "love" to a particular color; day; words. They try to define it. Give it a box to fit into.

If love exists, it probably can't be bounded by four simple letters. You would feel it in your blood and gut and goose-pimpled skin. See it in the face of anybody you would see on any ordinary day. Think it, deep in the churning, secret places you go to when you sleep. You would not speak it.

But how would I know?

Maybe I'm looking for this elusive, real love.

No. Maybe I just want to be wanted. Needed. Cared about. Like when a person wraps strong, gentle arms around me for no other reason than to hold me. When a person tangles their limbs with mine and we drift off to sleep. When a person joyfully calls my name. Tells me that they miss me.

No. I'm attracted to people who are bright and shining and confident, among others... Maybe I want to find a way to take some of their explosive vibrance for myself...

No. Maybe I want all of that, and more.

Sex. Our bodies, flesh, skin, writhing against each other. Putting your tongue and parts of you inside my mouth. In me. Trying to pull you inside of me. Exchanging body fluids. Saliva passing from lips to lips as we kiss. My juice on your fingertips. Yours dripping from your cock onto my tongue. Or dripping from your cunt down my chin. Sweat - all over. Blood - sometimes. My tears on your cheek after an intense orgasm.

Orgasm. (The small death.) Mind-numbing pleasure; a screaming release of all the emotions that you can't give words to. A sweet few seconds of pure oblivion.

So I've had sex without being in love but... Is there anything casual about that? Is there any way I could emotionally detach myself from something that's so emotionally charged?

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