These are strange, uncertain times in which we find ourselves. I imagine you must be worried sick by now; about getting the virus, about whether there really is a virus, and about whether you’ll ever be permitted to leave your house again without dressing like part of a hazmat crew. Well buddy, I don’t mean to trivialize anyone’s neuroses, but let me tell ya, I need to fuck.
Fucking is the only thing I’ve ever really cared about in life. I’m good at it. Unless you’re one of the 5 or 6 people I’ve actually fucked, you have no grounds upon which to argue that statement. Everything I’ve ever created was done so under the belief that “maybe some girl will like this, and we could fuck.” I think about fucking generally any time I’m awake, or while sleeping.
So how does one fuck, under the current circumstances? How are courtship and/or foreplay at all possible? Am I supposed to hold out until the day arrives when I can glimpse the lower half of a woman’s face again? Or should I just continue to pretend that I’m in some awful 1970’s sci-fi think-piece, a brutalist dystopia wherein the natural urge to fuck must somehow circumvent imposed regulations that make intimacy and touch impossible? Because emphatically, I need to fuck. Pronto.
As far as I can determine, my dick still works, although at this point it might as well be a doorstop. In my experience, the entire purpose of having a dick is to see how many consecutive seconds you are permitted to stick it inside a woman’s vagina. I don’t even care about getting anyone pregnant. I just need a brief refresher on that cosmic sense of totality that comes from basic, dick-in-pussy intercourse. Why is that weird? And no, I won’t resort to prostitutes, because they’re surely ground zero for the might-be-imaginary virus, and anyway, do prostitutes even still exist? (Asking for a friend.)
Don’t get me wrong; going to buy groceries without wearing a mask and presuming everyone else is diseased would be great. You know what else is great? The way bellies slap against each other during the act of missionary-style fucking. Being unclothed with a woman, and then fucking. Switching positions mid-fuck for no other reason than the option being available. These things are, in my vague recollection, far greater than being able to stride unbidden into McDonalds and order a hot Quarter Pounder in person.
I can’t imagine that I am alone in being slowly driven insane by the overwhelming need to fuck. It isn’t possible that everyone’s sexual desire flatlined at once. But following after social courtesies, every part of the performance of fucking involves me putting my lips, hands or penis onto or into a woman’s body. How is this done in the age of quarantine? If we, as a people, ever come out on the other side of this, does the average single female have the slightest idea how hard they’re going to get plowed? Or how frequently?
It’s unprecedented. Courtly love has been reduced to mere consent. I would literally fuck practically any woman who permitted me to do so. (I would not under any circumstances fuck Nancy Pelosi, nor any woman currently employed by Lucasfilm. My need to fuck does not override my principles and integrity.) I am offering a valuable public service here. It’s not merely about me “getting laid”. It’s about reminding the world that there is no tangible motivation in life other than fucking. What else is there, eating? You’ve been eating everything in sight for two months and you’re still bored. What does that tell you?
You see all those people breaking quarantine and going to the beach? They need to fuck. That’s how intense this need has become; intense enough to tell a cop to die on purpose over the vaguest possibility of fucking. Right now the entire world is cock-blocking. That’s more unhealthy than touching supermarket counters, or frolicking with murder hornets. Everyone (adult) needs to fuck. Pronto.
Not as much as I do, though. I should have done a lot more fucking prior to March of this year. So, that’s on me. But I believe I can be forgiven for assuming that fucking would continue to be an option in life. I considered that a safe bet. And what can I say, after four years of “pussy hats”, “#MeToo”, and Alyssa Milano opining about politics, my ardor became lamentably refrigerated.
It took a global pandemic and enforced quarantine to remind me of one crucial, vitally important truism. I need to fuck.
If you’re a woman, and you’ve come to a similar conclusion, you know where I am.
It’s not like I’m going anywhere.
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