Depression vs VIAGRA!

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Rule #1: Don’t get too drunk to fuck.

As the proverb goes–You’ve got to get it up. Now, not getting overly drunk while being a stone cold alcoholic can be a dick tricky…whoops–I mean, a bit tricky. Severe depression doesn’t exactly spur the sexual demons to life either, so intimacy can be difficult while my depression is acting up.

Getting naked with people I know is fun. I’m not shy–Doctors, gym showers, skinny-dipping, lets get skinned-up! Sometimes, however, perhaps a first date or other awkward social occasion, imbibing alcohol heavily and often just seems like the right thing to do, you know?

————>

So I’m swiping through Tinder, mostly to the left, when someone appears like a cloud of diamond dust, swirling until gently settling in the image of a beautiful woman. This human may just have potential as a source of gender based fun? let’s see what she is into: Social Justice–ooh now I’m really turned on. Song writer–nice, I could use someone to sing me to sleep. After reading a list of books that was longer than necessary–which I very much appreciated –it was clear that this human was sexily intelligent, fun, cultured, generally pretty rad. So I sent a message, something like, “I’m a Socialist in the streets, but an anarchist in the sheets 😉 Wink”. Did I emoji a wink and also type the letter-based word? Yes. Yes, I did. Because everyone has different phones and tablets and computers and now watches(!) so I’m always afraid my software’s emojis won’t translate and I’ll accidentally send someone a death threat (👉😎💣{you the bomb})

As awful as that introductory pick-up line was, I assume she looked at my profile and saw that I’m not totally useless. To protect her identity, we’ll call her…you know what? fuck it. There are 25 million Sarahs in the country, you’re not gonna have any idea which one I’m referring to. SARAH! responded and we began chatting. Soon we decide to voyage on the ever painful, never skippable right of passage referred to as the “First Date”. It actually wasn’t that bad since neither of us were really looking for a boyfriend/girlfriend, nor were we looking to get laid. We just had a lot in common and were genuinely connecting and having a great conversation; Neither asked each other, “what was it like growing up…blah blah, blu blah” or “So what kind of music do you like (said while simultaneously puking out the other side of mouth)”. This was actual good conversation–no pressure–no sexual tension–no expectations, just verbal chess over coffee. Of course the irony is, when you have a great casual conversation between two people who aren’t trying to have sex with each other, it makes you really want to have sex with each other. There’s nothing more sexy than an intelligent, passionate conversation that flows with ease. So our evening proceeded as our boundaries dropped in infinite regress and hopping around town felt consummately comfortable, like hanging with an old friend, not someone I had met that afternoon.

The inevitability of a kiss was so obvious that it just slipped into the conversation without pomp or circumstance. There was no big moment with requisite stare into each other’s eyes, and yada yada yada.  Just some kissin then back to the conversation. 

We ended up back at her place, getting even closer still. I was getting more self aware. This was going swimmingly and I didn’t want to mess it up.  Are we moving too fast? Am I being a gentlemen? Is that giant pimple still on my ass or did I remember to pop it? I had been so depressed and isolated for so long I’m not even sure I’d remember what to do if we went any further. We switched back to kissing, which led to grabbing various appendages, which led to the big reveal–take those clothes off! Just as we are about to commence the big finale, my conductor dropped his baton and an early decrescendo was followed by a gasp from the audience. 

This magical evening was anticlimactic on a whole new level and though I don’t think a good date necessitates sex, “wanna watch some Game of Thrones?” Isn’t the strongest closer. Between the past 8 hours of drinks and eats and walking around town, my energy reserves were on empty. The added blanket of depression and anxiety wasn’t helping lift me up, figuratively or nonfiguratively. Other than the embarrassment I felt, I was more worried Sarah would think I wasn’t attracted to her or some other such arbitrary paranoia. We parted ways and I decided to plan.  

The next day I went to the doctor and explained my intimacy anxieties, which I never had before, but the pressure of being quite smitten with this girl amplified my anxiety. Plus, this was the first person I had met since my major depressive episode and I wasn’t feeling fully human or alive yet. The doctor recommended Viagra to get “over the hump” (no shit. Those were the Doc’s own words”), until I felt comfortable being intimate again. 

Yes, please!

I armed myself and regrouped for date two. It was too soon to say for sure if this relationship would last, but if it was going to end, I resolved that it wouldn’t be because of my nervous depression-penis; It would at least be because of my emotional inaccessibility or my bad decisions or hey, maybe she could take a turn at ruining things–I’ve had my share. 

So we met up a few days later to see a shitty local band. It was free and the drinks were cheap and they couldn’t beat me today. She wasn’t ready when I arrived to pick her up, so I went upstairs and watched TV as I waited. She poured some wine and we joked and chatted as she unnecessarily got dressed–my “enthusiasm” was overflowing and we fell into an anti-tornado of clothing that ended with us on the kitchen floor. Now is the time. Who will win? In this corner, the defending champion, Deeeeeeeeeepression!!! And in the other corner, the challenger–young, up and comer, new on the scene, Viiiiiiiiaaaaaaaagggrrraaaaaa! We exchanged blows for several rounds. The battle was hard fought. In the end, sweating, exhausted, the new challenger was Victorious! He had slain that abominable foe! The day had been saved and all the village people rejoiced in the spectacle. 

When you’re depressed and don’t feel truly alive, the stone staleness of ennui can creep it’s meddling claws into many unexpected corners of your pseudo-life, but this night, we won. A few days later I found out Sarah was a big time drug dealer on the lam from the law, which is why she was on Tinder–she could meet someone in whichever city she was in that week, quick and easy.  I never saw her again or texted or talked. But that didn’t matter. In addition to sleep meds, yoga, church, and writing, I had another tool in my belt to face anything depression could throw at me. I was a little more human again. A little more in control of my life. And it was nice to get laid. 

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