Originally published by Ladybud Magazine

Desperation is an ugly thing indeed. I recall one hot summer afternoon with a very drunk, very depressed fledgling stand-up comic who was going through what every San Francisco transplant goes through by their third year here – a nervous drunken breakdown – sitting across from me in my bedroom, giving me the “I really need to fuck you” eyes.

“Desperation is an ugly thing indeed.”

Reality had set in for him hard, he was in his mid-twenties chasing a dream while all the other dudes around him were striking it rich starting tech companies like Instagram and Twttr (back when they were too cool for vowels). These new tech companies had beer taps installed in the break rooms and the under-25 CEOs all had hot Asian girls with fake tits hanging on their arms. He was working as a server at a small greasy-spoon café and doing stand-up around town seven days a week, racking up unpayable parking tickets and getting older by the day. It was that breakdown, the one that starts with a “what the hell?” drink at eight in the morning and keeps going until you pass out in a pool of your own vomit and tears by eight in the evening.

In his drunken state he had neglected all personal hygiene, let me remind you it was a very hot day, and he was getting pretty ripe. I smelled it when he lifted his arm to steady himself on a bus that wasn’t moving. When he made the eyes at me I balked, I had a make it or break it moment—what the fuck was I going to do? He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. I felt nothing but I knew if I didn’t respond affectionately he might kill himself at that point, so I acted in kind.

I allowed him to take the kissing to fucking, but it was an uncomfortably miserable fuck—he was drunk and aggressive and angry. He pounded me like a nail into steel. As my male roommates pointed out, I took one for the team.

This is one of those moments when you think long and hard (and deep) about your vagina and decide what it can and cannot handle. I choose not to think about this in a negative way, rather as me helping him work through some problems, therapy.

Therapy, because what is promiscuous sex other than false intimacy? We can all masturbate but the interaction with another human being is validation of one’s self, of their own value to others, whether or not the feeling is temporary and artificial. If it was just about cumming you wouldn’t need a partner, you wouldn’t need to validate, dominate or share your own sexual existence.

“If it was just about cumming you wouldn’t need a partner, you wouldn’t need to validate, dominate or share your own sexual existence.”

That’s why desperation and rejection are so dangerous. People do some very sad and desperate things when they have no sense of self or when they tie their personal identity so intimately with someone who doesn’t want them. People who are unstable go to drastic lengths to unseat those around them, to punish them for not sharing their pain.

It’s hard to feel anger when all you feel is pity, but you will never feel anything but drunk and pathetic if you don’t address your problems head on instead of seeking to resolve them deep in a vagina.