I'm horny all the time: Emotionally horny

This is what happens when you want to be emotionally fingered

I want to be seen. I want to be seen. I want to be seen.

“I want to be seen” feels like a child’s tantrum that my soul constantly throws.

In Hindu philosophy, they say nothing exists unless it is perceived. There is no observation without an observer.

And I feel that in my bones. If no one sees me, understands me, engages with me—do I even exist?

Emotional horniness

There is no quick fix for emotional horniness. You can masturbate away sexual desire. Swipe away loneliness. But when you’re emotionally horny, there is no release. Only ache. Only ache.

It feels like a kind of narcissistic obsession—but instead of looking in the mirror and admiring myself, it’s like constantly wanting to undress my soul, my mind, my heart and have someone take it all in and be reduced to tears.

Sometimes I wonder—is writing part of it? This emotional horniness, this spiritual vanity? This constant urge to be understood and devoured, word by word?

The high of being observed

I want to be consumed. And to consume. To be met with equal intensity. To be felt in return.

Being observed—truly observed—that turns me on SO much.

Especially when the observations are said out loud. Not always poetic. Sometimes even plain. But always specific.

Things like:

• You know you write your bs like kindergarten students do.

• Wow, you smell so nice. That’s not the usual scent you apply.

• Do you know your eyes light up when you talk about seasonal fruit like oranges and strawberries?

• You always list your arguments in 1,2,3 format when you know you’re going to win.

• You give nicknames to your own emotions. Like "emotional horniness”, “accelerated intimacies”, and “Thursday maroons."

• I can hear your smile in your voice.

• People collect and press flowers, you collect and preserve other people’s words.

• You always punctuate things with time – I was 17 when… or the summer of 2019.

• You only ever wear earrings when you’re feeling emotionally okay.

These are the moments I feel most witnessed and thus most alive.

It isn’t just about validation. It’s about reassurance. That I’m being taken in as I am. That someone sits with a version of me for a few minutes (despite all of us having the attention span less than that of a gold fish) —and then they want more.

And the thing is, I do this for people. Maybe tenfold. That’s the one thing everyone says about me: I make them feel seen. I make them feel understood. Time with me feels “loving”.

The fantasy of emotional syncing

But I want it back. I want to be synchronised with someone emotionally. Not just on the same page. I want to be on the same paragraph. Same sentence. Same letter.

It’s like that quote from the film Frances Ha:

It's that thing when you're with someone, and you love them and they know it, and they love you and you know it... but it's a party... and you're both talking to other people, and you're laughing and shining... and you look across the room and catch each other's eyes... but not because you're possessive, or it's precisely sexual... but because... that is your person in this life.

But is that even possible?

Because I contain multitudes. I contradict myself all the time. If I’m a kaleidoscope, then they have to be a very curious child who never gets bored. They have to keep shaking me up. Over and over. To see what new patterns emerge—sparkly bits, jagged edges, unnamed shapes.

So here’s what I’m left with:

One: If someone wants to know me, both they and I have to endure the shaking. The emotional whiplash. The messy vulnerability. And that process? It's not pleasant.

Two: If no one can ever see all of me—then what do I do with that longing? Maybe the only real answer is to witness myself (but how do I do that with all my cognitive distortions, narratives that are gaslit, and a harsh inner critic?)

Three: If someone does see me, really see me, and still leaves—what does that say about me? What does that deepen, other than my abandonment issues?

The sexiest thing in a person? Sincerity

My favourite quality in a person is sincerity.

In a world where sincerity scares people, it moves me more than anything. I don’t want sweet nothings or 11-page letters. I want you to only say what you mean. And to not say things you haven’t understood the weight of.

Because I mean everything I say. Every word has blood in it.

And maybe that’s where this ache comes from.

An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment.

— Janet Fitch, White Oleander

I am definitely growing murderous with disappointment.

Human connections are becoming increasingly cheap

In a swipe-happy world of instant gratification, illusionary options, dopamine highs and brutal comedowns, I confuse openness for depth. Vulnerability for compatibility. Spark for substance.

I bare my soul in a week. They leave by the second. I create meaning. They were just passing time.

Emotional horniness convinces you this time it’s real. This person, this moment, this connection—it’s going to stay.

And when it doesn’t—because it usually doesn’t—the whiplash is brutal.

You’re left raw. Exposed. Like you gave away something sacred and they mistook it for something casual.

So you begin to doubt yourself. Am I too much? Is this intensity repelling? Do I make things up in my head?

Are our connections just...cheap?

Fleeting moments of shared resonance. We convince ourselves it’s rare. Special. That it means something. When we speak to someone’s heart, we think our souls are made of the same stuff. But maybe it’s not rare. Not special.

I say this now—what I wouldn’t have said before—because I’ve felt that spark too many times. And maybe for them, it is rare. So they light me on fire just to feel it, and then run away.

Or worse, they were never here for the spark. They played the part to get what they wanted. And when that was done, they left.

And if something so sacred can be played with, mistaken, weaponised—
maybe it is cheap.

Like candy.
Like roses.
Like kisses.

It only rots, withers, and lies.

The shame and myth of fulfilment

And here’s the most humiliating part:
It’s easier for me to admit when I’m physically horny than emotionally.

Because sexual desire is common. Expected.

But emotional horniness? That’s something else. It feels mythical. Shameful. Like I’m chasing something so pure it shouldn’t even belong to this world.

And when I don’t find it, when the ache returns, I wonder: What is wrong with me? Why do I want this so much? Why am I this emotionally horny?

What to do now?

There are things about yourself you can change and then those that you can’t. And so you just have to accept them instead of work against your inherent self.

I still want it.
Even after the let downs.
Even after the casual ghosts, the spark-thieves, the actors.
Even after it’s made me question my worth.
Even after it’s made me feel unlovable.
I still want to be seen.
And maybe that’s the most dangerous thing about me.

Maybe emotional horniness is a curse from the gods— to crave connection so deep it rewrites your bones. To hunger not for bodies, but for the souls that live behind their eyes.

And maybe it will ruin me.

But if I must be ruined— let it be by wanting something this beautiful.