There's No One Out There For Anyone

St. Valentine's Day, an idea of a tradition clinging on from a long forgotten time when people loved one another and wished to express it.  I have a box of faded, delicate love letters written between my great-great-great-great-great-grandparents, I'm not even sure if that's enough greatness, but I didn't want to waste your time.
    It was skin-crawling, reading those words, those sickly sweet secret sentiments shared between two people of an emotion, a feeling, I cannot conceive of.  It makes me shiver uncomfortably just thinking about, trying to imagine how that must have felt, it's like cockroaches crawling on your skin, or worms wriggling beneath it.
    But, for me, it shared a private, unspoken fascination.  It was a time where the feeling that lead to the conception of their children, and ultimately me, was driven by a different desire.  They weren't thinking about propogation, instead, they were in love and that love brought them together, provoked the desire to hold one another close, to kiss and cuddle, and, ultimately, to have sexual intercourse and give birth to children who they would also love and raise as part of a family.
    It seems so alien and irrelevant, but it is how it was.
    A friend of mine, I can't tell you his name, once told me, in confidence, that he thought he was falling in love with a girl in our seminars.  He was so ashamed, he didn't know what to do, he wanted to be with her, but he couldn't stand to think of her with other people and knew he couldn't say anything, that he couldn't ask to be his and only his.  If she told other people he would be ostracised.  He couldn't even bring himself to have sex with her, though she had come on to him a number of times, because he knew it would only make things worse for himself.  He would tell her lies, make up medical conditions, just so he could get out of it.
    I listened, but I had nothing to say to him.  I don't care about him.
    I don't understand why someone would want to go back to that way of thinking, where ridiculous imaginary emotions get in the way of sexual pleasure and rational reproduction.  Why would a man and a woman want to solely dig into the same genetic well when they could spread their genes far and wide creating a more diverse, culturally and intellectually exciting society.
    Love is a stupid concept, I don't know where it possibly could have originated from, it seems to preclude the basic instinct of any human being, the primitive, and ultimately more pleasurable, urge.  Why create a weight of guilt to hang around your necks when you commit, what they called, adultery?
    I have plenty of friends, a number of which I regularly have sex with, alongside those I have a handful of frequent sexual partners, and then there are nights out where perhaps I was go to a sex club or just to a bar and perhaps go home with some people for sex.  I am absolutely indiscriminate with my sexual preferences, as I feel everyone should be, and I have had sex with all types of people.  Why would I only want to have sex with one person for the rest of my life?
    I have tried to imagine it, and it must get boring, or the sex must lose its appeal for at least one, if not both, people in that pairing, and then, what can you do?  I imagine the stipulations and pre-conceptions of the love partnership would prohibit you from requesting another sex partner, and then your sexual frustrations could only be re-directed into unhappiness.  Why would someone do that to themselves?
    I will have friends all my life, as I will have sex partners, maybe they will continue to be the same people, maybe they won't.  If I felt that my sex partner had to be the only person I would be spending my life with then I would perhaps judge my sex partners and my friends more harshly.  I would not have sex with many of the people I have sex with for reasons as prejudiced as intelligence and genetic benefits.  I have friends and sex partners for all manner of occasion, and I feel no more distant or closer to any of them based on their thoughts and feelings.
    I wish my friend hadn't told me that he thought he was in love.  I don't think I can be his friend anymore.  He was always strange.  I thought he was quite liberal, but he would not have sex with me, yet he expected me to stay at his house drinking into the night, and I do not see why I should have to masturbate and he forbid me from doing so in front of him.  He is far more conservative than I expected, and I am surprised that he would dare open up to me.  People have said I have a friendly face, so maybe he thought I could be trusted.  I guess I can, I won't tell anyone who he was, but I shall have to cut him out of my social life.
    I feel sorry for my distant relatives, bound by their love, how that must have stymied them financially, how it must have inhibited their ambitions, compromised their dreams.  I have a freedom that they could only dream of, I am untethered, I am fulfilled, I am wanting nothing and bound to nobody.
    If someone loved me I don't think I would want to know.  I cannot imagine being able to sex with someone who loved me without pitying them, and that, among many others, is an emotion I do not wish to experience.  I have never understood why emotion ever invaded the enjoyment and gratification of sex.  If anything, when I try to conceive of love as a general experience, I can only see it interfering with the process.  How can the two things go together without one cheapening the other?  If you felt that strongly about someone then I can only see sex seeming tawdry when cast under that shadow.  Whilst sex as an expression of love seems ridiculous in equal measure.
    Sometimes I think my curiosity could be misinterpreted.  As much as the antiquated idea of love does fascinate me it is not for envy, as I believe envy is an emotion that is only really associated with love, and since we have no need for love we have no need for envy, we have no want because people don't treat things with such a precious facade.  I do not love or hate anyone, I am utterly indifferent, as I have everything I need and that which I do not have I do not need.
    I have only been refused sex three times, once by my friend as I have already described, once because they told me I was too young - I was seventeen and they were forty two - and once because they said I was too drunk, but I do not think that was the real reason.  Besides, I generally only wish to have sex with people who I share some commonality with, though, largely, I think this isn't always entirely necessary, it is my one real sexual preference and I am only less particular when I am outside of my comfort zone and feeling horny.
    There was one girl who got pregnant, that was a few years ago, and once she had the baby she was straight back at University.  I've heard about men and women who wish to raise their own child, but that isn't the norm, as it used to be, besides there are plenty of centres that will raise the child to a good standard.  My parents chose not to raise me, I have never met them and have no desire to do so, my early years attendants were good and I was lucky to have some strong teachers, hence why am I still in education now.  Though I'm not sure what I want to be, perhaps a banker, I hear they have a lot of sex.
    I think my sexual desire is quite high, I have sex every day, usually with one of my housemates in the morning or at night, and then often with classmates on break times or after school.  I go to a sex club probably once a week and can spend a whole day there and friends invite me to orgies quite regularly.
    There is so much I have to do, so many people I want to have sex with, so many things I hope to achieve before I day, and I cannot imagine trying to form the heightened, unrealistic emotional connection expected of my perception and understanding of the concept of love alongside trying to accomplish all that I wish to within the span of my life.
    But I read these love letters from generations past, left with me when my mother and father decided to take me to a centre as a baby, and I feel a twist in the pit of my stomach, a peculiar sadness that they were so naive, that they believed in a fantasy, and spent their long lives in this state of delusion thinking that it would have some sort of lasting legacy, some sort of meaning beyond their limited days, and here I am, many years down the line, and I know how little it all meant, how worthless it all was, and for some reason it makes me sad, and I never feel sad.