Desire

The beach on one side, alcohol on the other, and dozens of sparsely dressed beautiful women dancing barefoot in between.

The night started with some dancing and catching up with friends.

Should I just enjoy myself or put on a performance? I could feel the pressure rising. The voice in my head was telling me all these women were just waiting for some guy to make the first move.

I looked around hungry. I was imagining the whole story already. Meeting her that night, waking up together, coffee in the morning, maybe even traveling somewhere exotic. I was still healing from the break-up and felt alone.

I poured some confidence into my bloodstream. Even smoked a cigarette hoping it would calm me. But the bright lights, moving bodies, and the heavy bass rhythms didn’t leave much headspace for me to bring out my best self.

I danced, caught a few curious glances from women, and even got one rejection that sounded like “I’m just here to dance”.

Towards the end of the night, I didn’t get any further than a bland chat with a Swiss woman who, once I asked her for a dance, announced she was actually married.

Half-drunk and somewhat defeated, I walked away wondering why I couldn’t hit it off with anyone. Knowing that others were leaving hand-in-hand, destined for a wild one-night stand, made the defeat even worse.

I woke up groggy the next day. Two coffees and a nap later I knew, as I always know the morning after, that my only job had been to enjoy the night. But knowing that has never stopped me from turning the next one into a performance too.

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The Engine 

Stuck for four hours during delivery. Abandoned three times as a child. Before I could even tie my own shoelaces, I learned that love was something I had to earn and could lose at any moment. So, I started earning.

Maybe that’s why I became determined to prove to the world that I was worthy of existence.

I wanted life. All of it! Before it would be taken away from me.

I made myself a promise: At the end of life, I wasn’t going to look back with regrets. I’d rather die poor than empty. I’d rather risk misunderstanding than live half-lit. I wanted to get drunk on life—every day, week, and month—while I was alive.

I entered my twenties eager and determined but didn’t yet know the kind of man I wanted to become. Did I have what it takes? Growing up with no father, I had to figure it out on my own. Was I going to be able to raise my low self-esteem, find the courage to say what was on my mind, and fight for what I believed in?

I first built a traditional life. I had a dog, a house in the countryside, and a convertible in the garage. I seemed to have it all, but the predictability numbed my soul.

I got rid of everything and started drifting in an ocean of possibilities, unable to find the right buoy to anchor myself in.

When material things and geography that usually root a man were missing, I decided to look for my grounding in a spiritual home.

Relationships became home and sex became divine intoxication. I felt seen by women. They gave me aliveness—I suddenly bloomed as a man. Maybe I could find liberation with someone I could share life’s beautiful moments with. With every new romance, I was hoping to discover the next piece of the missing puzzle that would make me feel more whole.

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The Feast

I began devouring experiences. I was hooked. And the more I consumed, the hungrier I got.

My biggest distraction—women. I chased them because I am simply good at it. Nothing excited me more than the promise of a new romance and the thrills from playing the game of seduction.

Sometimes, after I had finally stumbled into something serious, I found myself torn between love and the longing for worldly pleasures. We got tested and I started questioning whether I was capable of that kind of commitment at all. What if I was wired for solitude for the rest of my life?

A few years ago, I was spending the winter months on a Spanish island in the Atlantic. I remember opening my ocean-facing studio’s door and looking out over the horizon, thinking I’m so fucking miserable. I would always crave whatever I didn’t have. Most likely, I would get it. And once I did, I would realize the stupidity of my greed.

From stimulating city life into relaxing nature. From exulting in my freedom as a single man, to finding belonging with a woman. Wherever I arrived, I always missed that place I had just left. Why couldn’t I just enjoy where I had arrived for a change?

I had gotten everything I ever wanted. Life was pretty comfortable. It inflated my ego for a moment, and then the same kind of numbness dressed up as emptiness took over.

In hindsight, everything was temporary. I loved a place until it wore off. Intimacy was no different.

Would I never feel like it’s enough?

I gave seven years to one person. Even got married. We travelled the world together, built a nest in one of Canada’s most beautiful cities. Then, between years five and six, we started to crack.

Could I sleep with only one woman for the rest of my life? What about kids? How were we going to keep compromising on our many differences? Was love going to be enough to keep fighting, or was compatibility just as important?

Last year, we broke up. I craved validation and went on a dating spree. I dated two to three women a week, sometimes two in the same day. I ended up in bed with most of them. I felt alive! I didn’t regret any of it. But I also couldn’t make sense of any of it. How was that going to serve me at all?

I kept unleashing the cravings all at once, spending a week living wildly, and then falling into a depression once I had sucked every bit of excitement out of it.

I was consuming experiences until the experiences started to consume me.

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The Shape of the Thing

I started noticing gaps. My narrative around women was something I had constructed to feel better about myself. My sexual compulsions and obsession with novelty were just there to fill them.

The thrill of living was gone, and I risked losing people, jobs, and community.

In women, I had found a home until the foundations started to shake. We fought about non-monogamy, about the impossible math of loving each other while wanting others. Her terrified eyes told me that everything she feared made me come alive.

Two break-ups later, I finally recognized that I couldn’t keep showing up smaller than I am. True freedom required me to stop lying and filtering, and to risk a fire. I had to take off my armour: speak up in a group of men, speak honestly to a woman, write with an open heart on the page. I had to stop protecting my “good guy” image and reveal the exuberant, sexual, and rebellious man I actually am. Most importantly, I had to accept that not everyone would like me. And not everybody did. My recent breakup is what happens when I stop hiding.

Being me would take sacrifice and the courage to start anew.

I used to think that I’d find my grounding through relationships. But what if art is the more reliable ground? My creativity is, in the end, the only pursuit I have control over.

What happens when a man stops anesthetizing his desire and stops performing for admiration? What happens when creative expression contains the fire?

I started finding the thrill in something I create myself. Women, sex, nature, and music become the main characters in my story. Messengers on my path towards wholeness.

The irony is that I’ve known the right answers all along. But the hunger is too strong. So, I keep suffering. It’s my choice.

Fear kept me wanting more, so I took it all, hoping it would fill me. And I still don’t know how to be filled.

Now my hunger serves the art.