My grandmother touched me in ways that forever tarnished my sexual desires. It wasn't quite molestation. But it was damn close. Now, contact... hands on me, only makes me want to crawl out of my skin. I can't stand it. For me, it's revolting.
With mutual sexual contact off the table, dealing with most women's emotions - the often venomous attitude towards men - is pointless. Dating becomes akin to going to the dentist: all hell, no fun. So, to do something that is no fun for fun alone... why?
It never made sense. If I want to have fun, I'll have fun... not torture. It's only rational.
When I lost my virginity, I had an epiphany. I surrendered virginity to escape public ridicule. When I did, public opinion no longer matter. I could do what I want. In time, I had reached deep to find what I wanted. I found literal sex wasn't apart of it.
Beyond shelter from peer hatred: I had no desire to realize a single wet-daydream (my subconscious openly crushed all actual wet-dreams) into reality.
So, I have urges, desires, fantasies. But none of them scream for realization. They are voyeuristic dreams and nothing more.
When it comes to touching: I'll leave that for my grandmother and nightmares.