This is Why I Fuck


I like to fuck.
I fuck because it’s fun.
I fuck because it’s easy.
I fuck because it’s comforting.
I fuck because it’s numbing.
I fuck because it’s shallow.
I fuck because it’s rough.
I fuck because it hurts.

I fuck because I can’t do anything else to stop the crippling loneliness that fills my heart and mind with cruel thoughts of empty beds, wet pillows, and a room without a light. This is why I fuck.

I like to fuck. Not have sex or make love or whatever else cliché Nicholas Sparks and obnoxious writers and hopeless romantics call it. I like to fuck. F-U-C-K. I like the way it’s spelled, so simple yet inflicting so much. I like how it sounds in my mouth or streaming from someone’s lips. I like how it feels inside of my head eradicating all thoughts except itself. This is why I fuck.

I like to fuck. I like pretending the other person isn’t even there. Fucking removes the anger and sadness and leaves raw emotion. It takes away the evil within my head that infects my chemical makeup with its horrors, and leaves the good that I rarely experience. It’s just pleasure and happiness and feeling. Normally it’s screams of pain that engulf my head. But not when I’m fucking. So I fuck. Maybe I have a problem. I probably do. But then I shut out the thoughts and go back to fucking. This is why I fuck.

The other person doesn’t really matter. Nothing about them is really important. It’s how they make me feel. No matter how much or how little they care for me or I for them: it takes me to a place that I can never escape by myself. It’s not some orgasmic-filled landscape with flowers and butterflies (because I wouldn’t like that anyways) rather it’s where I can feel sane for a short while. I’m not crazy. But I’m not not crazy. I’m depressed and anxious. Like most people, I’m sad. It’s a sadness so interconnected to my being that I’m not sure I can or would exist without it. It affects and destroys every aspect of life: friends, school, work, family, relationships and on the list goes. It so heavily affects everything that I don’t just want an escape I crave it at my core. So I fuck.

But it’s a quiet sadness. It stays unnoticed by the common person with the naked eye, like a stalker awaiting your every move. It waits and waits; its patience has no bounds. Until it is creeping up, around me until I’m so utterly engulfed by it that darkness is all I can see. And when it retreats, there are still some shadows that never really fade. So I fuck because in those moments the sadness is shocked away with light and pleasure and everything good. This is why I fuck.