Tired of Hedonism

I was traveling with The Man.

We were talking about the good old days in Asia. When a man could have it better than Kubla Khan ever had it in his pleasure dome. Before triple whammy of disease, money, and Western culture infected the region. When a lack of rules and experience meant survival of the most testosterone. When lackeys in the boardroom meant lackeys in the bedroom. Pure hedonism. I’ll tell you, The Man did some wild shit. I kid you not. There are some stories... but perhaps another time.

All this was before my time, dammit! I arrived too late on the scene to enjoy the halcyon days...

No but seriously, we talked about it. And there was no regrets. Not even the slightest interest in a day long gone.

I realized: I was tired of hedonism. I just have no desire for another night of debauchery with girls shedding their clothes with their alcohol-decimated inhibitions, knocking over whisky bottles like the ten pins of morality in the bowling alley of sexual fantasy. No desire for a foggy night of sexual overload with an immemorable number of women mounting every remotely stiff protrubance in the area. No desire for the feeling of a hundred attractive women competing, truly racking their brains competing! for my attention using any and every device at their disposal. No desire for having all basic desires in a 24 hour period — food, drink, sleep and sex — all taken care of by attentive and skilled women, so that not a thought ever had to ever cross my mind.

I’ve written before about how the brain can adapt to all kinds of pleasure-producing inputs leading to an ever-spiraling never-ending quest for more stimuli. An addiction. But I was not addicted. No, this is fatigue, plain and simple.

But is this merely a refractory period? A latent post-orgasmic phase that will pass, only to restore my desire for hedonistic pleasure raging more strongly than ever?

How can one ever know?

Perhaps a test?