Why Do Some of Us Feel Sad After an Orgasm?
Ever feel inexplicably sad after an orgasm? I don’t mean the abject horror of realizing your roommate has silently walked in and out of your room while you were getting to know yourself—really gunning for it, laptop open, pants off, socks on. That’s called embarrassment, and can subsequently make it very hard to look that person in the eye.
The sensation I’m talking about is subtle. It’s the fleeting despair that occasionally accompanies even the least noteworthy climax. Not everyone experiences it, but if you have you’ll know exactly what I mean.
Called post-coital tristesse (PCT) by people who know about such things, the melancholy one can feel after an orgasm is actually a very well documented phenomenon, with references dating back to the Roman Empire. Sometime around 150 AD, in fact, the prominent Greek physician Galen wrote, “Every animal is sad after coitus except the human female and the rooster.”
Mind you, as prominent as he was, Galen didn’t have it all figured out; both sexes are affected by PCT and the experience can differ radically from person to person. It’s also not to be confused with post-orgasmic illness syndrome (POIS), a rare condition that could be due to anything from a lack of progesterone to a semen allergy. The syndrome can cause sufferers to experience a wide range of symptoms, including apathy, itchy eyes, and weeping, for up to several days after an orgasm.
Reasons Why LA Is the Worst Place Ever
I recently moved from London to Los Angeles. Despite the fact that LA is the undisputed worst place in the entire world, I’ve been trying super hard to like it. Mainly because I like being that guy who likes the thing everyone else hates just to annoy people (which reminds me, people I know in real life: I never really liked Skrillex or Twilight. You should’ve seen your faces though).
Liking LA also seems to be “a thing” lately. I’ve seen a bunch of articles about it, like this one by Joseph Gordon Levitt that people keep sending me. In it, he talks about how LA is superior to New York because you can sing in the car when you’re stuck in traffic, and also he once saw the movie Swingers here.
Anyway, below are the main things that have been annoying me since moving to LA.
THERE IS DANGER EVERYWHERE
In London, the worst that can happen while you’re out walking around is maybe stepping in a puddle or gettinghappy slapped. Here, I have to worry about drive-bys and forest fires and mountain lions and “The Big One” and rattlesnakes and brain-eating parasites and home invasions and fucking TSUNAMIS! Why did someone think it would be a good idea to build a city here?
IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO HAVE A NORMAL NIGHT OUT
In London, or New York, or Paris, or any other city on Earth, going out means either walking/taking public transportation to a bar or club, then maybe walking to another place after that, then taking a cab home. This becomes problematic in Los Angeles, because public transportation does not exist. And I’m pretty sure cabs don’t exist, either. This means everyone drinks and drives, and I’m not sure if you’ve seen those ads about it on TV, but drinking and driving is really, really, really not OK. Then, you have to find somewhere to park or pay a bunch of money to valet, and then line up to get in, and then before you know it you just paid $30 to get into a “yoga rave” that’s ten minutes from ending, you’ve forgotten where you parked and, oh shit, you got a ticket. Fun times.
THERE IS HIPPIE BULLSHIT ABSOLUTELY EVERYWHERE
Every time I think I’ve met a normal person, I find out they’re extremely into some kind of new-age nonsense. Did you know that Mercury is in retrograde right now? Me too, and I really, really shouldn’t know that.
I’m a happy, posi homie (like, par example, this week I ordered half-the-rice in a burrito and the receipt, I SWEAR TO CHRIST, said “LIL’ RICE” which made me 2004 out and office-scream “THAT’S MY RAP NAME! LIL’ RICE IS MY RAP NAME!”) but once in a while, like now, I get stoked on being sad. Sad, like, a gutting and unresolvable alienation that just needs to be had, not period-irritated or reflexive singer-songwriter diarrheics (no emo) or clinical depression (which is a level of hev that nobody gets off on).
Welcome to Bummer Town, population chicks. That was weak, I’m sorry. But here you are, with your toe tilting down into a sweatpantsy hidey-hole/vortex.
Is it seasonal? Sure. Joan Didion’s corpse (#notclearon) hoverboarding, inescapably, above us? Yesss. Is it that God is dead, that every machination and micro-movement toward being good is both futile and damning, that the betrayals and disappointments of people who love me have metastasized to the point where I just expect it, that I toked away my intelligence and grew up in a big house so all of the alienation I feel down to my hard white bones is nothing more than jerkpaste? Yesss, it’s all of that.
Sad-decisions will include sleeping with your roommate who is also sleeping with your other roommate, because why not degrade yourself as entirely as possible when you’re eating cookies for meals (not by accident, either); taking two milligrams of Lorazepam instead of one to fall asleep (by accident, I guess, but you could have looked at the label, right?); and existing in a biodome that harvests slurry-thinking, Cronenberg daymares about being murdered by your gold-studded jewelry (with concurrent horizontal stud-stabs to the forehead) and leaving your office Christmas party before it starts even though there are chicken fingers which are your favorite. Those are “for instances.” I don’t even have a roommate.