What happened to my sex drive?

What happened to my sex drive? (sung – in a round pussy willow warble - to the tune of -- Oh Where Oh Where has my little dog gone). Once pronounced libido of mine took kamikaze nose dive, whereby about two thirds of mein kampf ago, I yearned to be sought after beaux yet as severely socially anxious and withdrawn lad present day ofttimes repeated laments find me to crow slamming self NOT losing my virginity at a precocious ago, cursing lack of tangible results courtesy feeble attempts delivered deathblow to a fragile ego, and now only as a married celibate sexagenarian dearth of rutting thoughts along the unforgettable lines sketched out by storied author Eugene O'Neill includes lustful and romantic desire, largely illustrated by the relationship between Eben and Abbie hashtagged within tragedy Desire Under the Elms ricochets with salient significance an attempt by O'Neill to adapt plot elements and themes of Greek tragedy to a rural New England setting inspired by the myth of Phaedra, Hippolytus, and Theseus, which story of five characters on a rural farm in 1850s' New England, how their lives both pushed together and pulled apart by their conflicting desires such aboriginal, primal, optimal, animal, et cetera characteristics once figuratively bounces hither and yon, to and fro within testosterone powered windmills in my mind. With a flame boy hunt deft jais nais sais quois firm lickey split tongue and two bell yule yar pissant little nippy nappy noopy ruck berry filled up paul ling sacks viz peppy la pew doth not peter out, and weathers clawed rained swipes from hello kitty when faux pas gets swung assisting climbing Jacob's ladder (without pussy footing, orb bing a putz like the president) advancing quick to attain orgasmic rung while heading into a slippery sloping sluice (with prickly endeavor emitting cleat trill smooth sailing along a re coarse upon phallic shaped pung crossing la brea tar pits (peppered with lai bee ha tricky bridge over the River Kwai) comprising ideal place de la resistance to woo tang clan foreign nee Kate, where two puckered rill lee fleshy ruffling rills tinged pinkish lips overhung a challenging escarpment, where many a brave Tom, Harry or Dick get hung up, particularly while searching for fabled “G” spot, Fear of Flying (a bildungsroman whose central theme couched in the search for self-discovery) by Erica Jung cuz portcullis hamstrung even the most fiercely determined Engelbert Hump per dink necessitating the moist risky ski maneuver as most studs know tubby gelandesprung though booby prize wool worth any slimy setbacks, where sticky gook gets flung from angry cat, who does not in the least find amusing, and if further pricked with rage not averse to hurl dung gar (with) ease at snaky, retractable hardened foo fighting beastie boy twill clung for dear life and limb (er, or twig and berries), while applying crampons (bivouacked within his maxipad), viz bung gull low, essentially a ball peen size cove screwed and hammered out by Dashiell Hammitt, where coiled, kinked follicles strewn tightly inlet among pheromone laced verboten fruit.