This was a very long piece and it never really strayed from its central theme that sex itself, the act, the chase, the culmination, the "afterglow", were the driving forces for the author and all those he personally encountered along his way.
Now, when he seems to feel that his journey has reached a point at which he may at least rest, he sets off again, this time in print, chaste and chastened but still fervid in his opinion that there must be passion to fuel his trip to make it worthwhile.
So, in his newfound passion to mend old fences and build new bridges, he careers back along his wrecked path, righteous and indignant at the same time, flinging the bits and scraps of his past behind him in the vain hope the road itself can be set right and made ready for the next traveler with a firmer foot.
The trouble is, the passion consumes him; there is no place for him to rest, one day he will simply stop searching, for his own feet will carry him no further.
Interesting post. Could one summarize your point by saying the author appears to have replaced one destructive passion with another?