“Mate,” he said with a face that looked like despair had just walked in and poured itself a drink, “this blasted Covid business has left my cock economically bankrupt, or, or,” he stammered, “seems to have left my dick insolvent.”
I laughed—unashamedly and with some delight.
“What the fuck’s so funny?” he snapped, wounded and suspicious all at once.
“The words,” I said, still chuckling.
“What words?”
“‘Seems to have left my dick insolvent’—that’s a bloody poetic turn of phrase for a man in crisis.”
“Fuck me,” he groaned, “you writers are a peculiar species. I bare my soul to you about my tragic sex drought, and you are over there taking bloody literary notes!”
I laughed again, harder this time.
“Fuck you!”
That only made it worse—or better, depending on who you asked.
He shoved a pint into my hand. “Alright, philosopher. And how are you coping, then?”
“With the seclusion or the celibacy?”
“Don’t take the piss—obviously the sex, man.”
I paused, and then: “You know…” but thought better than to finish.
“I haven’t had a fuck in three months,” he declared with all the subtlety of a pub brawl, “Three. Fucking. Months. I am going round the bend.”
I made a noncommittal hum—barely a sound, really.
“What the hell was that?”
“Just a hum.”
He rolled his eyes. “Christ, don’t be a bloody monk. Aren’t you missing it?”
I took a long breath—one of those breaths that tries to pass for an answer.
“What?” he pushed.
“You know I’ve never been the sort for casual flings.”
“You’re a fucking idiot,” he retorted with affectionate fury, “if I don’t hit the club and do my ceremonial mating dance, I feel like I’m bloody fading out of existence.”
I considered him for a moment. “Ah,” I said at last, “you are not missing sex so much as the ceremonial stroking of your sexual ego.”
He rolled his eyes again—he did that a lot with me—and called me, with great warmth and vulgarity, an insensitive twat.
“You’ll be fine,” I said, giving his back a pat.
“You’re telling me you don’t miss it even a little?”
“What answer do you want? The truth or the polite lie?”
“The truth, for once.”
“Well then,” I said, taking a sip from the pint, “I read somewhere that for some people, nothing comes more easily than confidently deducing the sex life of a person they have never met—especially if they are conveniently dead in the head.”
“Oh, you mean like Don Juan, who shagged his way through Europe and then erased them from memory?” he grinned. “Or Casanova—same model, just better dressed.”
I sighed. “Are you trying to say that human sexuality hasn’t changed a jot since the Stone Age—that the only real evolution is in the artistry of hypocrisy?”
“I’m saying,” he said, wagging his finger, “that sex is a realm where self-deception wears a tuxedo and calls itself truth, and brutal honesty is no more trustworthy than romantic waffle or tactical silence.”
I stared at him. “Was that you talking, or the beer?”
He lobbed a cushion at my head.
“Listen,” he continued, “half the bloody married people I know are screwing around too.”
“Adultery’s been fashionable since Eden,” I said, “there’s nothing novel in the breach of vows.”
“Exactly! Most people these days just want a shag without the sermon. Marriage is overrated, mate. I mean, I may be single, but I’ve seen married men lonelier than I am. At least I’ve got control over my cock, and not surrendered it to some woman who doesn’t even know where it bloody belongs.”
I nodded—not in agreement, but in understanding.
“And I fuck because I like it. Not because I hate myself, or because I’ve got mummy issues, or whatever psychological bollocks you people love to drag into the conversation.”
I inhaled deeply, then smiled. “We are in the same club, mate. Different corners of the dance floor, that’s all.”
He winked. “Then what’s your problem with getting what you want, without dragging emotions into it? It’s not like it’s a bloody death sentence. Or like I’m secretly crying in the shower every time.”
I shrugged. “If something casual leads to something lasting, I think that’s grand. Serendipity’s a lovely thing.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then I do suspect,” I said slowly, “that there may be deeper issues at play—loneliness ornamented as lust, past wounds demanding temporary salves. People trying to feel seen, even if only for the length of an orgasm.”
He shook his head. “I’m not here for a bloody therapy session, mate. I just want to get laid. And honestly, if it meant shagging again, I’d bend Covid over and do the honours myself.”
“Charming,” I muttered.
He polished off the last of his beer by theatrically licking the inside of his glass, then said with a slurred sort of clarity: “You do believe it’s impossible to love one person all your life, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“So what if you did find ‘the one’, and a few years down the line it all went sideways—wouldn’t you quietly go shag someone else?”
“No.”
“Bollocks,” he exclaimed, “then what would you do?”
“I would tell her, honourably, that it wasn’t working—and part ways, if possible, as friends. I would rather be lonely and truthful than partnered and duplicitous.”
He looked at me, beer-glazed eyes wide. “And that’s how we’re friends?” He laughed like a man who couldn’t decide whether he admired or pitied me.
In the weeks that followed our conversation, I saw nothing of him. I presumed, as ever, that he was faring well—he usually did—and thus I resolved to do what seemed most natural to me: to set in writing the thoughts that had continued to pace restlessly through my mind since that curious and candid evening with him.
The recent pandemic, in its sweeping disruption, has stirred a restlessness of many shades across the broader spectrum of society. Though much of this unrest remains unspoken—either for want of words or occasion—it is no less discernible. Among the more curious consequences of prolonged isolation has been the marked decline in the availability of unencumbered, spontaneous sexual encounters. While some have borne this deprivation with admirable temperance, others have endured it with barely concealed impatience, awaiting the lifting of lockdowns not for the liberty of movement per se, but for the liberty to resume their pursuit of carnal conquest. My friend, I must confess, belonged firmly to the latter sort—his vexation appeared not to arise from the absence of sensual pleasure in itself, but from the gnawing inability to stroke that portion of the ego which is flattered by the mere act of acquisition. For him, the thrill lay not so much in the physical union as in the private confirmation of his own desirability, measured in the tally of women who would admit him to their beds. And I can scarcely imagine how shattering such a drought of euphoria must feel to one so conditioned to the chase.
Yet it would be a grave misrepresentation to suggest that all men were poised to erupt with frustration should the grip of the pandemic not be soon loosened. For there were others—reserved, perhaps, and less conspicuous—who, confined to the solitude of their chambers, had begun to re-examine the architecture of their desires. The enforced stillness brought with it a strange clarity, leading some to reconsider the course of their sexual lives and to question whether the trajectory they had thus far pursued was in fact worth continuing at all.
As one might reasonably surmise, comprehensive literature on the psychological ramifications of the pandemic upon human sexual behaviour remains sparse; the duration of this global upheaval has simply not afforded sufficient time for any conclusions of enduring certainty to emerge. Nevertheless, among the early studies that have surfaced—particularly one conducted in the United States—there appears to be a rather curious finding: adults who engaged in casual sexual encounters reportedly demonstrated levels of psychological well-being comparable to those in long-term, committed relationships.
Conversely, other investigations offer a less sanguine perspective. These studies suggest that individuals who frequently pursued casual sex also reported notable declines in overall well-being—manifesting as a deterioration in self-esteem, a heightened sense of psychological strain, and in some instances, symptoms of clinical depression.
Of particular interest is the observation that the emotional response to sexual deprivation—specifically in the context of casual liaisons—revealed no striking divergence between men and women. However, another thread of research offers a subtle but significant caveat: men were generally more inclined to admit that casual sex afforded them a sense of emotional upliftment. Women, on the other hand, while not devoid of similar experiences, were far less likely to voice them. This reluctance may be attributed to the sobering reality that the psychological cost of casual sex weighs more heavily upon women, due not to some intrinsic deficiency, but rather to the heightened risks they must bear—be it the spectre of social censure, the emotional toll of feeling objectified, or the ever-present possibility of unwanted pregnancy. In short, what may be a cursory pleasure for one may entail a far more complex emotional calculus for another.
Having diligently made my way through a series of in-depth interviews conducted by a research team shortly before the onset of the lockdown—an exploration intended to inform a forthcoming publication—I encountered a surprisingly intricate portrait of the emotional and psychological toll that regular casual sex imposed upon men who practised it. What emerged was neither simplistic nor one-dimensional, but rather a study in contradictions.
In essence, the majority of these men appeared to derive from their pursuits a sense of heightened self-gratification—an inward swelling of triumph, so to speak—through what many of them described as a strategy of “seek and master.” The act of seduction and subjugation served as a sort of self-affirming ritual. And yet, woven into these testimonies was a perplexing counterpoint: a significant number of respondents admitted that such an unrestrained lifestyle, once adopted with youthful enthusiasm, had ultimately proved injurious to their mental well-being. Indeed, several confessed to feeling immeasurably lighter, even peaceably redeemed, after abandoning it.
The reasons for this renunciation were as unexpected as they were poignant. These men, some of whom had lived with unrestraint, came to recognise that something within them seemed to wither—subtly, yet unmistakably—each time they engaged in coitus with women they had scarcely known and would never see again. The act, once rousing, had become a silent erosion of the self. What captivated me most as I read through these accounts was the reticent insistence of conscience emerging in lives previously governed by appetite. Meaning had caught up with pleasure. And this was no insincere call to morality; it had little to do with conventional notions of right and wrong, both of which are often wielded subjectively. Rather, it was a dawning awareness of personal responsibility—of the intrinsic dignity owed to one’s own soul.
For it is, I believe, the greatest of human endowments that we possess the capacity to think, to reflect, to turn inward. And to think, truly think, is to live as if there were a tomorrow—to behave not like creatures driven solely by instinct, but like beings capable of discerning whether our hungers are worthy of indulgence. As I continued reading, I encountered numerous men who had come to relinquish these moreish compulsions. They spoke of the ephemeral exultation of promiscuity—of bedding many women in rapid succession—but acknowledged that this indulgence was leaving them hollow, not whole.
Whether this weariness stemmed from personal experience or from a deeper form of existential fatigue, the study was not yet prepared to conclude. But one truth did stand out with clarity: an increasing number of men, once enthralled by the carousel of casual encounters, were no longer deriving the pleasure they once did, and now expressed a firm and articulate longing—for a life not only of satisfaction, but of significance.
Upon completing the interviews, I was struck by a philosophical resonance that brought to mind Derek Parfit’s seminal work, “Reasons and Persons”. In it, Parfit posits, – Like my cat, I often simply do what I want to do. I am then not using an ability that only persons have. We know that there are reasons for acting, and that some reasons are better or stronger than others. While some of these are moral theories, some are theories about rationality. We are particular people. I have my life to live, you have yours. What do these facts involve? What makes me the same person throughout my life, and a different person from you? And what is the importance of these facts? What is the importance of the unity of each life, and of the distinction between different lives, and different persons? He then goes on to explain – My subjects, reasons and persons, have close connections. I believe that most of us have false beliefs about our own nature, and our identity over time, and that, when we see the truth, we ought to change some of our beliefs about what we have reason to do. We ought to revise our moral theories, and our beliefs about rationality.
In order to acquire a medical perspective on the matter, I sought the counsel of Dr Rob Weiss—an esteemed author, clinical practitioner, and legal authority in the domains of sex, pornography, and substance addiction. For over two decades, Dr Weiss has devoted his professional life to the psychotherapeutic treatment of individuals grappling with issues of sexual behaviour and emotional intimacy. Drawing upon the breadth of his research and clinical experience, he offered the following insight: If casual sexual activity doesn’t violate your moral code, your sense of integrity, or the commitments you have made to yourself and/or others, then it is probably not going to be a problem for you in terms of your psychological wellbeing. That said, you may face related issues like STDs, unwanted pregnancy, partners who see your relationship as more than just casual, etc. And you should understand that these related factors could adversely affect your psychological wellbeing even if the sex itself does not. Conversely, if you are by nature or upbringing socially and/or sexually conservative, or you have a strict religious belief system, or you tend to attach emotionally to anyone with whom you are physically intimate (regardless of whether the other person reciprocates), then casual sex may well cause you to experience shame, depression, lowered self-esteem and the like. This may be especially true if you engage in casual sex for “non-autonomous” reasons like getting drunk, seeking revenge, trying to fit in, etc.
One’s social situation is likely to play into the desire for and the psychological effects of casual sexual activity. In young adulthood, for instance, casual sex tends to be more common and more easily accepted than later in life, especially if one gets married and starts a family. What feels right at 20 may feel wrong at 40. At the end of the day, there is no undisputed right or wrong answer when it comes to casual sex and its effects on psychological wellbeing. For some people, it is probably fine, and for others it is probably not. Each person is an individual, with a unique life history and emotional makeup, so each person is likely to respond differently to casual sexual behaviour.
I hold Dr Weiss’s opinion in the highest regard, and yet it is precisely at this juncture that I find myself compelled to diverge—gently, but resolutely. For it seems to me that the men who had once surrendered themselves to frivolous indulgences, those short-lived, endorphin-driven pursuits, had in due course awakened to the realisation that there had been reasons—genuine reasons—for their actions. And that as human beings, endowed with both intellect and conscience, we are called not merely to act, but to act rightly. That there exist ways of being, and that some of those ways can indeed be wrong.
Now, let us be clear—this intuitive knowledge is not born of religious injunction or moral imposition; it does not arise from psychosomatic anomalies, nor from the preaching of some sanctimonious supremacy. No, it issues rather from a placid place—a commonsense born of soul-awareness, the inward certainty that one’s spiritual reservoir is being steadily depleted. It was remarkable to observe that certain men, upon confronting this inner desolation, did not linger there. They seized their lives by the collar, as it were, and turned away from the fleeting allurements that had dulled their honour, choosing instead to halt the downward spiral before it rendered them spiritually inert.
We live, after all, in a world which loudly proclaims the right of every individual to pursue pleasure in whatever form it may appear—so long, of course, as it remains within the bounds of the law. And sex, being one of the most profound and instinctive of human desires, shall undoubtedly see a resurgence as the world gradually returns to its former rhythms. My own counsel is this: by all means, partake in it—responsibly, lawfully, and freely. But for heaven’s sake, do not cheapen it.
Sex is sacred. It is the incarnate expression of love, the visible form of an invisible bond, a union of not only bodies but of spirits. Something so intimate, so wondrously binding, ought to be approached with reverence and with tenderness—not treated as a mere athletic event, nor reduced to an animalistic pursuit ending in nothing more than a climax and a quick retreat. Is it any wonder, then, that so many find themselves empty afterwards, their supposed victory tasting of ash?
The next time you stand at that juncture—deciding whether or not to peel away your clothing, both literal and metaphorical—pause. Think. Weigh. Discern. Ask not merely what your body craves, but what your soul longs for. For it is in that moment of reflection, not in the hurried exchange of sensation, that the bona fide essence of human experience lies. The meaning of life, I suspect, is found not in the friction of bodies but in the fidelity of hearts.
References:
Barnes, Julian. (2019). The Man in the Red Coat. Jonathan Cape.
Whitley, Rob. (2020). Casual Sex: Harmless Fun or Harmful to the Soul?. Psychology Today.
Weiss, Robert. (2015). What Are the Psychological Effects of Casual Sex?. Psychology Today.
