I realised something last night whilst on a particularly lovely date; we were talking about what it was we were each looking for, and at first, I'd said something along the lines that I was hoping to find a friend with whom I could share physical intimacy,  but then, as I thought about it more, I realised, I'm not as interested in hookups as I'd previously thought.  I really do want some kind of actual intimacy that's expressed through many ways, including (but not only)  sex, rather than simply sex itself, for its own sake.  This may not sound revolutionary, but for me, it was revelatory.

I don't miss coming, nor even making someone else come; I  miss the excitement that comes from the slow peeling away of the layers of artifice we all cultivate in order to survive this world, both from myself and from somebody else, allowing our true selves to meet, and the warmth, the friction and melding that occurs as a natural result, when sex is simply the closest tool at our disposal for bringing our bodies along where our souls have already gone.

I've been desperately hurrying through the grief of losing my partner,  because part of me is convinced I will never again find the easy kind of intimacy the two of us shared, and it's true, I may not; this is a terrifying thought. I've been subsuming my grief in the process of trying to slake my physical hungers, but with this realisation came the understanding that those hungers aren't only,  nor even mainly physical.  I cannot run from this pain, and, I no longer wish to.  Instead, I want to grow toward something. 

This process has been, and will continue to be painful, but it has also been, and I hope, will continue to be beautiful.  This is metamorphosis: the dissolution of a previous self in order to emerge anew, and I'm here for it. I'm here for all of it.