I have been out-of-my-mind horny this week for some reason. Probably the impending apocalypse. Care to comment on these waves of lust and their timing?
Horny in New York
Thank you for this question and subsequent emails which reveal you are of the homosexual persuasion. One thing does lead to another, although cause and effect are devilishly hard to determine sometimes; in this case, worry not, your horniness is not hastening our end. Nevertheless, the apocalypse is doubtless impending. A canny observer would argue it’s underway in the form of a slowly accelerating, inexorable and deceptive prequel. Cory is both alarmed and pleased to find his balcony plants untouched by frost this winter and still blooming. While pretty, it can’t be good. Winter is disappearing, and Cory does, after all, reside in Canada. Not a flake of snow has fallen, and ski hill operators are in the most dismal frames of mind.
Your association of wanton desire and disaster is a deft one. Allow Cory to gaysplain. Plants are wise. They seem to know the weather and growing conditions of the future and seldom get caught with their petals down. How humbling for humans, who are terrible at prediction. A stressed plant, sensing personal doom, will pour all of its resources into making seeds so its genes can live on. “A plant in need is quick to seed.” Flora stressed by drought, predation or lack of nutrients will produce hormones that aid survival and signal other plants nearby of danger. Humans, of course, also undergo profound hormonal changes when under stress. The constant barrage of information about social deterioration, pollution, overpopulation, the end of economic growth and the unfolding catastrophe of global warming bears down on all our psyches. Our Eden has become a smoking garbage dump. It is not unreasonable to assume that you are reacting to this by manifesting an urge to procreate, or at least, ejaculate. Supporting this is the curious fact that when extremely hung over from poisoning themselves a little too much with alcohol and feeling like death itself, men get the hangover hots. And so it is when men have the flu. They retire to their beds, but cannot seem to resist feverishly and constantly stimulating their genitalia when they’re supposed to be resting.
Your horniness could well betoken existential stress and the resulting urge to reproduce by spreading your spooge far and wide. Cory understands, after decades of befuddled observation, that homosexuals cannot, of themselves, reproduce. Yet here we are, a constant three percent or so of the population. To replenish our number, we hijack the machinery of breeders, but tragically have yet to direct them effectively in the raising of young homosexuals. Reproductive challenges aside, you might go with what your body wants you to do, and good luck with it.
Cory will now consider composing a guide to the coming apocalypse for gay men, and would appreciate a question to justify his efforts.