Sometimes I wake up with love oozing out of my fingertips. I know it sounds kind of wonky, but it just drips from my fingernails to the page. A spigot of heat, if you will. Love is a big topic, one I’ve written about before. How can I not? It’s so primal. So visceral. It lives inside us. Shit, I even wrote a letter to love. I loved that piece. Still do.

Today isn’t about love, though. It’s about a lack of it. Maybe that’s why it’s creeping out of my pores.

The worst grievance the coronavirus has caused me, which is pretty fortunate, is that I haven’t had sex all year. What? I know, I know. It’s the longest I’ve ever gone. If sex makes you uncomfortable, don’t read this. But it’s the physical manifestation of love. It’s so literal. Sex happens or it doesn’t. There’s no mistaking it. It can be transactional or emotional. I prefer the latter. The former has no appeal to me anymore. I don’t know why. Mostly me just being brutally honest with myself. Hunter S. Thompson said it best: “Sex without love is as hollow and ridiculous as love without sex.”

I’m not lonely, but the quarantine has made me feel as such. It’s been hard on singles. No question. Part of my existence has always been “going out.” It’s not that it’s my whole life—actually, it's the smallest sliver. Four hours on a Saturday, to be exact. But it's a necessary part. The yin to my yang. The juice. I need it. You can’t stay sane with your head in the books or fingers slapping the keyboard all day. Too isolated. Need the yin. Where the hell is the yin?

So basically I was in a dry spell, then coronavirus happened and boom. No sex all year. It’s only been six months (nine now), and at first I was miffled—pretty sure I just made that word up, but now I’m kind of enjoying it. I’m not going to lie, it's actually given me something to be excited about. A new mental game, I guess. Leaving me to wonder, “Am I really going to waste this streak on you?” Or ponder, “How long do you have to be celibate to be reconstituted a virgin?”

Maybe it’s all ridiculous—okay it’s definitely ridiculous—but it brings up a bigger question of whether you gamify life. You should, it’s more fun that way. I do it quite often. It’s how I read and write, that’s for sure. Little bit here, little bit there. Otherwise I’d never get shit done.

Here’s the big problem: my hands feel like they’re slamming down on the keys today. Rock tips. Nothing buttery about them. More like bing, bang, boom. Slam, slam, slam. I’m working through it. Rock tips? I kind of like that. Sometimes you find gems in the oddest of places. Rock tips are the worst feeling for a writer. Clunky hands banging into each other, overdressed just wishing they were naked. Well, that and no sex. Love is a prodigious thing for a creative mind. If you go too long without it, hinges get creaky, and your stuff becomes lifeless.

How long I'll last is anyone’s guess. It’ll probably have to do with how long I can deal with rock tips. Well, that and how good my imagination is.

*This article is part of the ongoing Morning After series: short, reflective pieces on thoughts, feelings, and ideas about life. They’re kind of like well-manicured journal entries, written the morning after a night out.