Futile Lust

As a pansexual man I’m sort of an erotic everyman. At times I feel like an erotic no one.

Presented - admittedly only in my imagination - with everything I find it hard to want any one thing.

My sexuality tends to adapt. When focus vanishes, what is there to adapt to?

The last two nights have been almost empty of sleep. I toss and turn. I get up and have a snack, go back to bed only to get up again and read. Unconsciousness - blast it - just won’t come.

It is only background noise but I can tell my restlessness stems from a rogue jolt of sexual energy. Naturally in hopes of dissipating the vitality keeping me awake I try to masturbate.

Either no fantasy will come or I skip from one to another, never able to cling to one and give myself an even minimally satisfying orgasm.

Recognize this celebrity twink of long ago?

I do find myself drifting back into what I’ll call in the context of this site vanilla top space. I see myself inside some compliant guy, pleasing him with my maleness.

A barely remembered male model. You find people looking for his more, um, exciting photos, few of which are to be found.

Or even - and this is much less common for me - under some guy with the shapely lines of an Adonis.

Or even more startling: I’ve felt the sadism that I’m really happier to have in abeyance. I picture myself torturing his penis while mine slips in and out of him. I imagine his sphincter clenching about me as I hurt him.

Homoeroticism aside I find women’s’ buttocks coming to mind in the dark. Nothing unusual in that I guess. Though I’ve often felt my fascination with the female bottom stemming from the years when boy’s butts in the variousness always fixed my eye.

What does this signal? I haven’t a clue. Perhaps nothing of significance.