Sex is a choice

I haven’t written a post for over two years. So, I should probably say a word or two about what I’ve been up to—and I probably would have done so, if the circumstances were slightly different. But I won’t do that. I’ll just say this, though, by way of explanation: I write, because I must. I wrote the previous posts because I had to. I didn’t write any more because I no longer felt the necessity. Now, I write because I feel it again. So, I shall start abruptly—as abruptly as that feeling overtook me.

Sex is a choice. In a sense, this is obvious. I have sex at a certain place, at a certain time, with a certain person. I could’ve had it at a different place, at a different time, with a different person. But I didn’t. That’s why it’s a choice.

But, in another sense, it’s a choice and not a choice. Sure, it has a time and a place that I can identify it by. I wasn’t anywhere else, anywhen else, doing anything else. So, even if I don’t have a clear recollection of it, I can still infer that I chose to do it then and there. But if I need to ‘infer’ it in the first place, then it’s not a choice. It was just another fuck. A number. I can ‘infer’ that it was with a particular person. Maybe I even remember her name. But does that make a difference?


Yeah, she’s just a number. What’s her number? The time and the place. In a string. Like 1703110130. I mean, it doesn’t get more unique than that. But that’s not the point.

Did I ‘choose’ that number? Okay, let’s say that I did and that I also did with 1803140015. Can I distinguish the two by anything other than their numbers?


Is that really a choice? I mean, what kind of choice is that? I didn’t choose her, I chose a number. That’s not a person. If you think that it is, then you have a pretty horrific view of what a person is.

You could make the thing more specific, like ‘the girl with those hideous heels’ or ‘the girl with the gappy teeth’ or whatever. But does that make her any more of a person? It’s just another incidental fact. But then just what makes her the person she is?

And then I realise that, if I’m a person too, then I’m only as much of a person as these ‘persons’ that I’ve fucked. I’m the person who chose to fuck 1703110130 and 1803140015. No one else fucked them. Only I did.

But is that really a choice? Am I just a nobody that fucked another nobody?

That’s it.

I didn’t really want to choose. I didn’t want it to mean anything.

I didn’t really want to commit. I didn’t want her to mean anything.

I didn’t really want to be anyone. I wanted to be a nobody.

That’s it.

I mean, who would want to fuck a nobody? Only a nobody. So, if she fucked me, she’s a nobody. Did she want to fuck a nobody? Only as much as a nobody could want anything. We’re just two nobodies that fucked, at a particular place, at a particular time.

That’s it . . .

But then came a somebody. I don’t know what made her a somebody, and not a nobody like me. But she was a somebody. She was somebody for me. Not anybody. Somebody.

She treated me like a somebody. She recognised me—a nobody. Then I felt like a somebody. I felt, like a somebody does. I was a somebody that felt a desire for another somebody. Me. Her. Two somebodies. One something.

I wanted to fuck. I wanted to fuck her. I wanted the two somebodies to fuck, at a particular place, at a particular time.

But I’m only a somebody through her. So what was I before she came? A nobody.

That’s right, a nobody.

Without her, I’m a nobody. But a true somebody can be a somebody without another somebody, right? So what am I? Not a true somebody. No, I’m a true nobody, in truth a nobody, only in appearance a somebody.

But a somebody doesn’t fuck a nobody. If she fucks me, she becomes a nobody. I can’t do that to her. She doesn’t deserve that.

But what’s she doing with a nobody like me in the first place? Maybe she’s also in truth a nobody. Maybe she’s a fake. I can’t fuck a fake. I’m not a fake. No, no. I’m a nobody. I don’t pretend like I’m anything more. But she does. She’s a fake. I can’t fuck her. She doesn’t deserve me.

Ditch that fake bitch.

So, I found 0206141720. I fucked her. She fucked me. Me. Her. Two nobodies that fucked, at a particular place, at a particular time.

But I didn’t just fuck 0206141720.

I wanted to fuck 0206141720.

I wanted to fuck.

I wanted.

Does a nobody want? I don’t think so. Then maybe I’m not a nobody. So what am I?

But whatever I am, can I fuck a somebody? Can I fuck a person that’s somebody for me? Can I fuck—and love?

Or is fucking just for nobodies?



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