Desired Tissue paper

I recently met someone on here. He was a very handsome man. Conventionally attractive, confident in his appearance, and capable of holding a conversation. Talking with him did not feel like pulling teeth, which already set him apart from many interactions I have had. But there was something about the sexual energy between us that felt wrong. The more I paid attention to it, the clearer it became. I was not convinced that his desire had anything to do with me. From the way he spoke and interacted, it felt less like he was turned on by me specifically and more like he simply wanted an orgasm. It did not seem to matter how that orgasm came into fruition or who it came from. It felt interchangeable. And that was deeply unappealing. There is a profound difference between a man who is horny and a man who desires you. I realized quickly that what I was encountering was the first one. He was not longing for me. His hands did not feel like they yearned to touch my soft skin. He did not lick his lips in anticipation of kissing mine. He was not curious about what I smell like or what it might feel like to slowly explore my body. There was no sense of fascination or savoring. The sexual intensity that existed did not feel like it was building from encountering me. It felt like it was already there before I arrived. Often he seemed already aroused before he even reached out to talk to me. That alone told me something important. The arousal was not sparked by me. It was already there. I simply happened to be nearby. Once I noticed that, the entire experience lost its appeal. Because for me, attraction is not just about whether a man is physically attractive. What I respond to is erotic attention. I want to feel like the desire is directed, specific, and intentional. I want to feel noticed. Studied. Chosen. Without that, sex feels hollow. The closest metaphor I could think of was this. You know when you are driving in your car eating something messy and cheeseburger sauce starts running down your fingers? You reach into the glove compartment looking for anything to wipe your hands on. It does not really matter if it is a napkin, a receipt, a tissue, or some random piece of paper. Your hands are dirty and you just need something nearby to clean them. That is how I began to feel. Like whatever random object someone grabs from the glove compartment when they need to wipe their hands. It was not about me. It could have been anyone. And that realization turned me off more than anything else possibly could have. Because the kind of desire I respond to is not generic. It is the kind that says very clearly I do not just want sex. I want you.