The Biology of Loneliness: Why We Need "Our" Person

I have a lot more sex now than I had in Russia. So much so that in all external parameters I should be satisfied.

Sometimes it’s even two different men in a single day. Different addresses, bodies, scenarios. With one—rough and fast, in half an hour; with the other—gentler and more measured. Everything is open, everything is by mutual consent. If someone were to describe this from the outside, it would sound like a “full life.” And, of course, there’s some truth to that. But there’s also a second side to it that almost no one talks about.

And at that moment, all that intensity suddenly vanishes. Because it turns out that the frequency of contact isn't the same as the quality of intimacy.

I'm trying to convince myself that this is normal. That it's just a phase. That this is how it is for everyone in gay culture: quick hookups, quick sex, minimal expectations. Grindr, meet up, go your separate ways—on to the next one.

And to be honest, it's convenient. No need to take risks. No need to open up. No need to wait. But there's a catch: you can't fool biology.

I started reading about this out of curiosity: Why, despite all this “abundance,” does there remain a void inside?

The answer turned out to be quite straightforward. Casual sex is all about dopamine. A quick rush. Interest, excitement, novelty. You got it—you moved on. It’s almost like scrolling through a feed: short, vivid stimuli.

But proximity — That's different. It's oxytocin. It's attachment. It's a sense of security. That's when the nervous system truly calms down, rather than just being temporarily distracted. And that's something you almost never see in chance encounters.

You can tell yourself as much as you want that “I just need sex.” But at some point, your body starts craving a different kind of connection—not just a one-time encounter, but a sense of presence. And that’s when the most unpleasant part begins.

Because in the gay community, it’s easy to get caught up in the illusion that you’re living a full life. You have choices, you have access, you have a community. You’re not alone. But in reality, you’re constantly replacing the same thing with different people.

I started to notice how this affects me. The more chance encounters I have, the less I feel like I have a “personal” space with anyone. Everything becomes fragmented. People don’t have time to become someone meaningful to me. They just pass through me. And I pass through them.

And then, at some point, you catch yourself thinking: Am I even capable of feeling anything for anyone right now? Or am I just going through the motions?

When I meet someone I really like, everything changes too suddenly for me to ignore it. My mood stabilizes. My anxiety subsides. I feel a burst of energy I didn’t have before. Even mundane things—sleep, concentration, the desire to do things—get better.

It's not magic. It's chemistry. The body finally receives a steady supply rather than sporadic bursts. And here we have to admit something that sounds almost uncomfortable in our circles:

It can mask her absence. It can make it feel like everything is okay. It might even convince you, for a while, that “this is enough” for you. But if you dig deeper—no.

For me, for example, that’s not enough. I need someone with whom I don’t have to start from scratch every time. Someone with whom there’s a continuation. Someone with whom I can just “be,” rather than being in “impress and move on” mode.

And yes, it’s vulnerable. Yes, it’s more complicated than opening an app and setting up a date. But, by all accounts, it’s the only thing that truly fulfills the need, rather than just mimicking it. Because no matter how many contacts you have—if there isn’t a single “special” one among them, there’s still a void inside.

To be honest, though, I can't bring myself to give up casual "one-night stands" either. Or maybe I don't want to… But that's another matter.