My name is Sam Vaknin, and I am the author of Malignant Self-Love, Narcissism Revisited.

To the somatic narcissist, sex and sexual conquests are sources of narcissistic supply, as cerebral narcissists couldn’t care less.

As cerebral narcissists wrote this, that thing between a man and a woman, I lack, that moist energy, the hungry eyes, the imperceptible tilt of body’s lusting, that magnetism, I don’t have this.

I do not know the frequency of the silent broadcasts of sexuality.

My face is handsome in a man-child way, my features are broad but quite agreeable, sometimes unrich or powerful, sometimes unfamous.

I can turn on at will, a fount of irresistible, immersing, spuriously empathic charm.

Women are curious, even inexorably drawn to me, but as they inch closer, women sense the void that I am, the howling abyss where a person should have been, the abode of death cloaked in the deceptive war marks of an ebullient, exuberant, ostensibly productive life.

I am the quintessentially deceptive package, an I being, a mental alien in an uncanny carnal outfit.

Until a few years back, I was able to disguise my illness.

I mimicked the behaviors, intricate messages, the subtle bodily perfumes, the long and longing looks, but now I can’t.

I’m exhausted.

These rites of procreation drain me of the energy I need to abundantly pursue my narcissistic supply.

Freud called this process sublimation.

I’m a prolific author. My seeds are verbal. My passion is in the abstract.

I rarely copulate once every decade or two when I’m drunk.

Last time I had sex was long before September 11. Yes, 2001.

In women, I induce confusion. They are attracted and then repelled by some essence that they cannot explain or name.

They say, he’s so unpleasant, hesitantly. He’s so violent, so disagreeable.

My own girlfriends, Aramons, fiancés and wives struggled with this fitted, repellent emanation. They called me sick. They said I’m creepy, damaged goods.

They meant to say that I’m not a healthy person altogether, not all there.

These women in my life invariably ended up with other men, cheating on me, having affairs, even swinging, desperately trying to recoup their molested self-esteem, feeling rejected and dejected.

The animals that we are, women sense my infirmity.

I read somewhere that female birds avoid the sickly males in mating systems.

Well, I’m one sickly bird, and they skirt me with the hurt and the complexity of their frustrated.

In this modern world of what you see is what you get, the narcissist is an exception. He is a form of false advertising, a diversion, an android of virtual reality with bug-infested programming.

The few women who do possess the audacity and temerity to pursue me with zeal and despite my ominous quillity, thereby unequivocally demonstrate their innate and manifest inferiority and pathology.

These old deviance women provoking me the most aggressive impulses and violently repelled by their presubtiousness.

What makes these women think that they have anything that I might need, let alone desire?

Waste strings their self-delusion that they automatically hold sway overly by virtue of their genitalia and gender-specific wires.

Can they tell that I’m immune to, even revolted by, their ostensible charms and age-old stratagems that their femininity is what turns me off?

Not long ago I was still able to control myself, to hide my vile faults, to play the social game, to bemetically engage in human intercourse.

But I no longer can. I am the denuded narcissist, bereft of all defenses.

The transparency is the ultimate and psychopathic act of sheer contempt.

People are not even worth maintaining my defenses anymore.

And this disdain, this expressed ostentatious indifference, frightens women.

They sense the danger.

Psychic annihilation is often irresistible.

The brinkmanship of self-destruction and luring.

That evil is aesthetic we all know, but it is also alien, like waiting from a nightmare into its continuation in reality.

But I’m not an evil man. I am simply indifferent, and I wish to not be bothered.

This schizoid streak conflicts with my narcissism, and with my alleged virility.

The narcissist devours people, consumes their output, and casts the empty, empty riding-shells aside.

The schizoid avoids them altogether, at all costs.

As a man, I’m very much attracted to the opposite sex.

I am imaginative in my fantasies, and prone to sexual abandon given the chance.

But, as a schizoid, in too a schizoid, women are in nuisance and annoyance.

Obtaining voluntary sex requires too much effort, and a waste of scarce resources, better spent on pursuing and securing narcissistic supply.

Most narcissists go through schizoid phases in their inexorable orbits of gloom and mania.

Sometimes the schizoid prevents.

A narcissist that is also a schizoid is an unnatural hybrid, a chimera, a shattered personality.

The push and pull, the approach and the avoidance, the compulsive search for the drugs that only humans can provide, and the no longer compulsive urge to avoid humans altogether.

And it’s a sorry sound.

The narcissist shrivels and withers as the battle is prolonged.

He becomes almost psychotic at the tug of war inside him, reaching out to people and wanting desperately to avoid them altogether.

Alienated even from his false self by his schizoid disorder, such a narcissist is turned into a gaping black hole, out to suck the vitality of everyone around him, like the proverbial vampire.

So you see, that thing between a man and a woman, I don’t have it.