I’ve been quite a workaholic recently, spending all my time sitting at my desk and seeing nobody, staring intently at a glowing, whirring box of magic. I’m working, for the first time in my life, at a project that combines practically all my interests, including a teenage fascination with computers, trying to set up a business that will make me lots and lots of money.

I know that I am obsessive about it. I’m spending far more time than could possibly be healthy at it – not moving for hours, not exercising, not giving myself decent breaks, forgetting to eat lunch or to go to bed early. I can hear my mother’s sigh from here.

The thing is, I seem to be using up the same energy that has, on occasion, sent me out night after night hunting insatiably to get my itch scratched.

Yes, folks, we’re talking sex drive.

Secret Lives

On that After Dark special on the Irish Church on Channel 4 recently, there was some time spent talking about the Catholic Church’s failure to train their priests for celibacy. It is telling that the issue which causes the Church the most problems is the one that can’t bear discussion in the seminary.

The only way the subject can be taught properly is by encouraging the sharing of feelings about sex. To be open and honest about sexual needs and fantasies and obsessions; to own them, instead of running away from them. It is only then that one can consciously choose to translate all that power into something on a different plane, if one so wishes. Or at least make an honourable attempt. But the compulsory celibacy imposed on priests means that there is no way of dealing with failures in that attempt, apart from secret confession and penance. Nothing is gained by the group; the language of sexuality remains unlearned. And the cycle of ignorance and fear is perpetuated.

Interestingly, the nun on the same program, a Sister Helena of the Sisters of Mercy, showed how much more alive to these questions Irish religious women are than men. She had her moment of glory when for a few scintillating moments she spoke of herself as a sexual being. It was stirring stuff, for there was no doubting her passion and her power. Unfortunately, it is beyond my capabilities to imagine a priest talking in the same manner. A Tibetan monk or a Hindu yogi perhaps; a Sufi Moslem, maybe. But a Catholic priest? There is an aspect of western society that denigrates male sexuality, so much so that a man who celebrates sex is immediately deviant; a threat, a pervert. With the result that it all goes underground. And when things go underground, they fester.

I have written in the past about an encounter with a seminarian; the impression he gave me was of living in a community that knew about his loving relationship with another brother, and, by turning a blind eye, approved of it. In such a community, of course, any discussion groups on celibacy and sexuality would be dreaded for exposing their monstrous double standards. Far safer to keep it secret. For the alternative is change. And institutions abhor change.

jungle fever

No-one talks about sexuality as a positive force, a healing power, a spiritual drive. It can be all these things, or none, depending on the individual. But above all, it is transformative. Sex changes things like nothing else on Earth. It can be an agent for birth and a carrier of death. And it can be the source of the most intense creativity.

Last Saturday night, I got cabin fever, and walked into town and had a pint in a noisy, friendly gay bar. I’ve let my hair grow recently; I no longer buzz with the bovverboy bristle. Heads don’t turn as much as they did when I had a number one, but it doesn’t bother me now. Maybe it will again. Or perhaps, as I welcome my hair back and notice it thinner on top than it was a few years ago, the skinhead look will regain its attractions. Anyway, I was standing there, cruising around, and for the first occasion in a long time realised that I have taken time out from Saturday night fever.

I am not on the hunt, just out for a change of scene, a break from solitude. And everywhere I look I see sex. Not literally, but in every other way. It informs everyone’s looks and behaviour. The haircuts, the jeans, the leather, the boots. The bodies honed to muscle-clad perfection, adorned with tattoos and figure-hugging vests. Everyone on heat, pouring all their energy into watching and preening and hoping and lusting. The attention to detail is phenomenal, as a newcomer makes his way from the door to the bar; nothing is missed. Those in groups feel quite free to stop talking and turn and take in the particular style of the fold around his crotch or buttocks, or the make of his boots; their smiles vanishing, replaced by horny indifference for the split second it takes for the newcomer to glance at them, and then they turn back and laugh with their friends at the ridiculousness of it all. For there is a lot of laughter.

I finish my pint, and leave; there is nothing to keep me there. Not the joy of the hunt, or the smell of a decent man.

And go back to my current lover, my work. Building my empire. Who knows? Perhaps so much of sexual energy is the hunt for a dream; the dream of a moment, or a lifetime, of bliss with another human being. And if we can turn that quest for bliss elsewhere, on a creative or spiritual journey to empower ourselves, what treasures we could find. If we dare.