Howling to the moon

If we keep our sexual life passably diversified and assorted, there comes a moment when we meet a very special partner; a partner whose combination of mind and body is such that unbeatably matches our tastes; a partner whose visage or figure, flesh or skin, hue or touch, or whose mating behaviour are of such nature that mean an epiphany to our senses; a partner with whom we experience the utmost mental and corporal satisfaction, driving us to the brim of madness.
However, paradoxically, contrary to what we might at first think, and in contrast with the glory we’re briefly enjoying, we find out quite soon that this encounter only dooms us to unhappiness, because, representing the summit of our sexual history, means also a challenge to any future love. After we lose this person (and we will, because these matches are seldom reciprocal, being merely coincidental if such a lover experienced the same with respect to us), from then on we’ll only perceive, in our future partners, decline and mediocrity: we’ll search and search, but rather hopelessly, because we know we won‘t find the twin.

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