July 2004 Archives

In the absense of relentless visual stimulation, my imagination has begun to return.

Forcefully.

I will share the fruits of this in these pages.

More to come.

Well said.

In fact I do know alcoholics who can sit in a bar with friends and do nothing more than eat appetizers and sip from glasses of cola.

And for all of you who have written I thank you.

Even to the one who said "I want to fuck your face" and no more.

Lust drives me crazy. And I do want it. I will certainly admit that I do plenty to keep things stirring.

There are aspects of the 12-step groups that I do not identify with. In particular the Christian leanings of the group and the closing of the meetings with the Lord's Prayer. There is a tendancy to dwell on shame and on certain activities as shameful or immoral and to use the meetings as a sort of confessional. I know not all meetings are like this. Not even all meetings in my area. But still, this is the experience I've had.

What I have found most beneficial, by far, is the knowledge that the things that run through my head do not make me freakish in the least. In fact, where addicts and other humans are concerned, I'm not that freakish at all. It was my personal tendency to identify myself as such that led to my problems.

What I like best about the people in the group is that they tend to be people who are living thoughtfully and consciously. Or they are trying damned hard to be more so.

Regardless of what happens, or whether I complete the 12th step, I feel like there are things I have learned already that I can take away from my experiences with the group and use them constructively.

I really do plan to keep this site going as long as possible.

Don't delete your links just yet.

;)

How I go back and for between posts about addiction and then giving in to lust?

Don't worry. I'm confused, too.

Sometimes I think there is no possible way to keep this up and also recover. Other times I think I get strength and community here.

I don't want to give up this site.

:: sigh ::

I want to put my mouth on you.

To sink my tongue deep into your folds and flicker.

To drive you crazy with my hands on your nipples.

A dirty little girl.

A slutty mouth and tongue.

And a wanton cunt.

Because twice isn't going to cut it.

I'm sitting here with a fat fucking erection.

I'm only using the 'net in public these days. It will put a dampener on the amount of time I'm online, but not in how much I think about you.

Link via Subsonora.

I wish I could say it was all wrong.

If I moved some of my pornography links to a secondary page, would it change the character of my site too dramatically?

Has anyone gotten good (or ill) use of those links?

I want to know. Seriously.

These excellent questions were just posed to me and I wanted to get them down so I would remember to answer them here.

Curious Reader says:
I wondered is there a difference between what you feel in those cases and when you love someone or do you know? or is it all the same and hard to tell?
Curious Reader says:
If you have problems letting someone in, being intimate in ways other than sexually, then are all women relegated to a certain circle in your life? or two circles. I call it the binary system
Curious Reader says:
ones are girls you'd "do" and zeros are girls you wouldn't do
Curious Reader says:
I guess it boils down to how do you know if you love someone or just lust after them?

Texting me about taking a bubble bath while I'm at work is so... not fair.

My mind fills with thoughts of warm soapy water and hands running over slick skin.

Yummy!

Please don't ever stop.

After the gate was opened and I entered the parking ramp, I started to wonder what it might be like if sex addicts ran the world.

My first flash was the female news-anchor massaging her nipple, moaning softly, then melting back in her chair and giving over to the sensations.

I hope not, actually.

I was just thinking, as my mind tends to wander off randomly at random times to pursue random—er, sexual—topics, that I have been really, really high on a drug high only once. It scared me, but I want to try it again. Probably dangerous for me seeing as I have addictive tendancies. But still, it's true.

However, the high I truly crave is sexual. I *crave* sex and sexual union.

Now, maybe I'm fooling myself with the union part, but I know of no other experience so engaging physically and emotionally. There is nothing like that thunderous moment of ecstacy. Nothing like the blissful aftermath and the closeness. Nothing.

I may misuse and abuse other things in other ways to cover the feeling of what I'm missing, but sexuality and my issues with it get right to the core. Why bother with anything else?

I don't know how the page generates the name, but I sorta like the results:

My japanese name is 猿渡 Saruwatari (monkey on a crossing bridge) 歩 Ayumi (walk, deeper meaning: walk your own way).
Take your real japanese name generator! today!
Created with Rum and Monkey's Name Generator Generator.

When I feel lust, that's what it's coming down to.

Like Branwyn's Tears, only there's no oil to spread around. It's just me.

Thinking about the smell of your hair.

Thinking about your legs wrapped around me.

Thinking about the texture of your nipples in my mouth.

Thinking about your smooth skin.

Thinking about the taste of you.

I ache for more.

I just ache.

It could just be maleness, but...

The gathering I was at tonight was small. Four couples and myself, at first. All married.

I had sexual thoughts about all of the women, including my sister-in-law.

Three more joined later, two women and a man. Visual checks on marital or relationship status were inconclusive.

I was ravenous.

I was starting to make eye-contact a little too often with one of the late-joiners.

It's good that I'm 'shy' as a rule, and good that I left not too long after.

The alarm klaxon has been ringing so long I no longer hear it.

"Danger, Will Robinson!"

I like danger.

Mmm... Danger.

It's one of those perfect warm, clear, breezy summer nights that is the stuff of my dreams.

I've just come home from a Going Away party for my middle brother and his wife. They're moving to a town outside of Huntsville, Alabama. They were thinking about moving and then found the perfect house. Seven acres in the mountains.

I didn't know for certain they were going until very recently. I'm a little angry about that. I'm a little envious that they will be getting to experience a new place and set up a new set of circumstances. They showed pictures of the house with its pool and outbuildings. Talked about plans to fence in several acres and build a stable for horses.

I'm happy for them—that they didn't stick around here out of a sense of duty to my family. Since the news of their impending departure, my mother has emailed me asking if people are trying to get away from her.

Red flag.

Because: a) Why would it be about her? They are acting on their dreams.

And: b) It is about our dysfunctional family. We're broken. As much as we are encouraging to your face, we love to gossip behind your back. I can't tell anyone anything, not really. Don't get me started on how two-faced they are about my wife—how dare she actually think rationally for herself and decide what's best for her based on her own experience!

I am really pained where my family is concerned.

After all, I do love them.

But living with and through my mother's mood swings was truly brutal. What I learned was that I need to keep a low profile. Then I come up clean after the shit's done flying.

And also, I learned to have my mother's opinion, which is to say that I did everything I could to read her and figure out what she wanted from me to avoid her shouting like a monster at me.

And she hit me and pulled my hair and my ears when she was angry. And she said horribly abusive things. And I learned to believe that it was my fault that she reacted like this.

My brother-the one who is moving got all of the same, but more of it. I was glad it wasn't me, but it killed me to hear the force with which he was being struck and to hear his cries of pain.

But she would hold me in her lap and rock me when I was sad or when I was sick. I loved to have my ear against her stomach to hear her heart beat. It was horribly reassuring. Other times she would assume this position with me when she needed someone to hang onto. And she would apologize teary-eyed for getting angry with me and she told me that she would love me no matter what.

My mother was also a compulsive flirt.

Apparently had several affairs in her first marriage, including at least one in which she ran away with the other man—keeping me in tow. I would have been no more than a toddler at the time.

After she remarried, my mother and new father (he adopted me legally after she convinced or coerced my birth father to give up his rights) would have terrible, terrible fights. Things she didn't get done around the house. Money she spent. Times she stayed up late instead of sleeping with him. Doors slammed. Dishes broke. My mother would completely lose it. My father would laugh at her.

So many times, my mother packed a bag for herself, packed a bag for me, and headed out the door.

What could I do except sit in fear and disbelief?

Actually, later I began to hope she would actually do it this time for good. If it would mean and end to the fighting. By now I had chosen sides. My poor dad never had much of a chance with me from early on.

But it would always be the same. My mother would drive away but stop quickly to make a phone call. She might talk for hours while I waited alone in the car. Or she might just run an errand. But we were always back home by the end of the day.

Eventually they did a Marriage Encounter thing and things were subdued, if not resolved.

My mother adored showing me off to her coworkers. She loved telling me what they told her—that they wished they were younger or just that they thought I was cute or handsome. She would glow. I didn't want to hear it. But I also ate it up. Ick. Yum. Ick.

Once, as a result of my studying French in school, we had a french exchange student with us for a month. He was from an upper-middle class family and he was charming as hell for his 15 years of age. I was 14 at the time. He spoke with an amazing grasp of British English *and* he had an accent. My mother was knocked out by this. And for at least four weeks I was knocked out of my place of honor in her heart.

Not that I didn't already have charms of my own by then, but I learned from this that I needed to adopt some of his more "genteel" behaviors. It was probably also about this time that I began reading GQ, wearing Chanel cologne, and jumping at any chance to go on any form of shopping errand with my mother.

Isn't that a grotesque feed-back loop?

But it's the truth.

I was for my mother in many ways what my father should have been.

Mama's boy. I am one. I think I mean way too much to her. It makes me uncomfortable now.

It used to baffle me why she would get so upset with my being involved with girls. Honestly. When I chose to leave my home state at the age of twenty to move to a very sun-shiny state, she was convinced that I only did it because my girlfriend made me do it.

I used to wonder why she didn't think I had a mind of my own.

In fact, I did not even realize until tonight, writing this post, that in fact she had been right all along where she had been concerned. I always showed her what she wanted to see. I had always conceded to her point of view. I had always let her talk me out of any opinion I might have had which didn't agree with hers.

So, no wonder it's so fucking humiliating to face her now. On some level, she must actually have contempt for me.

I hate, hate, hate that I feel so week.

So I have been avoiding my family.

And learning from them despite this.

Which brings me back to the wanderlust I started offf this post writing about. You knew I had a point, right?

I love driving my car on a warm summer night with the windows down.

And I wanted somewhere to go, so the feeling didn't have to end.

And I feel like I could be a gypsy.

Between my parents relentless search for antiques at shops in small towns and at auctions, and their relentless attending of family events and visiting through my childhood, I feel like I have spent a huge amount of my life in a moving car. And then there was the quick-pack-and-run maneuver my mother taught me.

Like I was being groomed for it.

Those are so not the life skills of the well-adjusted.

And I am such my mother's child.

Which reminds me.

The woman who married my birth-father is looking for me.

I logged into several of my IM accounts today. For a little bit. Read a few messages that had been cached and were waiting for me.

It's good to hear from you.

And my online absence has only been a question of access. The last place I worked just did not have a practical means. This place may not always offer it either...

Suffice it to say, I will always log in when I can.

Well, if I can't be honest here... I've got nothing.

I'm starting to trust my sponsor more. We connected tonight, thankfully—intellectually.

I admitted my reservations about religion and how I internalize what I feel is peer pressure and explained how the internalization tends to become obsession and then resentment. I also told him that I didn't want him to think he was laying it on too heavy—I just needed him to know where I was at.

He claimed to have felt the same way at various points in his life. What's more, he didn't seem to be handing me a line. I'm grateful for that and he earned points that way. He seems more human now.

He also asked if it would make me more comfortable if he eased up on that for now. Thankfully, amazingly, I had the courage to say "Yes. For now."

So... I hope I'm done vacillating and can settle back down into a routine where I don't fear my life is going to spontaneously self-destruct.

Because this morning, I was pretty sure I was going to need to check into in-patient treatment. You see, I've been awake since 0500 CDT yesterday. I spent the hours between 2200 and 0400 in front of my laptop, on my knees, in my self-gratification ritual. I'm quite devout. At the expense of soreness and chaffing, I delay orgasm for as long as possible. In the case of last night (rather, this morning), I was down to a half-hour before my wife traditionally gets out of bed for the day. Nevertheless I still hunted for a bit longer before finding a set of images I felt it would be worth climaxing to.

And that was it. I came.

As soon as had the orgasm began to subside I was awash in guilt. The house work I had put off still needed to be done. I hadn't even put away my left-overs from supper.

And I counted the hours that had just passed in the following manner:

1) Troll favorite pay sites (I did cancel one membership). Save photosets I like.
2) Troll link sites I like.
3) Click every fucking link on the link sites.
4) Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. But I don't come yet because I'm sure I'll find something cooler.
5) Right-click the image. Choose Save Image As.
6) Rename the file because I have already tried to save a file called pic001.jpg.
7) Repeat until I accidentally orgasm or until I have some important obligation like a job or until I run out of privacy.
8) Lie, lie, lie about why I am late to work and always falling asleep in places like public bathrooms.

Every spare moment I've had has been spent in the preceding manner for about the last 9 years. Before that it was porno mags. I had stacks and stacks.

Anyway, this morning I felt that I had no control over the habit and that nothing but outside intervention is going to make a difference.

We'll see. I know I have to do the work. Even if I have no addiction, certainly I have problems with intimacy and sexuality. I am going to get a therapist again—in addition to the counselor my wife and I are seeing.

I will give a nod to spirituality in this way: Where my own life is concerned, I feel that the universe has been a pretty forgiving place. Any time I have made an effort to change, there have been positive results and challenges that continue to test my resolve. And still I find plenty of happy coincidences. That all must mean something, right?

You warm my heart.

Anyone want one?

Bare bottoms only need apply.

That was my last obsessive thought before drifting into slumber last night.

The hardest thing about being and accepting the badge of "addict" is that I am now required to live with complete transparency.

Yet at the same time, I am advised by my sponsor that now is not the time to reveal everything. I need to be farther into my "recovery" before I should take such actions.

I have the knowledge that some of what I have done is completely unacceptable to my wife.

My sponsor says there are some things I have been doing that I need to quit entirely for my recovery. I can tell you plainly there is some stuff I won't give up.

I'm not convinced I'm going to tell my sponsor everything.

I'm angry that so much of the 12-step stuff is centered on a relationship with God-as-I-understand-him.

Frankly, religion makes me angry. There is far too much peer pressure.

There is stuff I want in my life that I do not want to acknowledge to my wife.

I had an excellent weekend with her. I felt closer to her than I have in many years.

I feel guilty. Sitting here writing this I know I could leave her and the most difficult thing for me to deal with would be her reaction. I am numb inside.

I watched a Dr. Phil episode of recent vintage. The episode centered around addiction. The last guest was a woman who stopped counting sexual partners after 200. She was maybe in her 40s. She was divorced, had estranged her family and wanted to find a permanent partner. There wasn't anything remarkable about her, she certainly wasn't beautiful or even pretty by most standards. Although her burgundy (red—let's face it) dress and high heels weren't lost on me.

I wanted her.

Dr. Phil said that she needs to form a relationship with herself. That she has probably never loved herself and she needs to find that before she begins more relationships with others. She agreed with that. She had been sexually abused from an early age and remembered being obsessed with boys from age 5.

That last made me think a lot. My first obsessive crush was in first grade. Janette.

I have never loved myself.

It's not as bad as it was—not lately. I no longer assume I am worthless and that I will fail at everything, because I'm not and I don't.

Oh, and one last complication: I read an essay by someone claiming to hold a Ph.D. that there is no such thing as sexual addiction. The article said 12-step organizations are pseudo-science perpetuate shame and simplistic "sex is bad" and "just say no" philosophies, even if fellowship is found. And the idea that the sex is sought as the result of an addiction separates the sexuality from the person—where the author felt sexuality is integral to identity.

I sure don't want to be an addict, but I have to say that sometimes the desire to go masturbate is overwhelming. I did it twice Sunday night. I don't feel bad about that as much as I feel bad that I'm conducting myself around my wife as though I do not. Deception again. I'm debating whether or not telling my sponsor is what I want to do. I don't want to stop mastubating. Simple as that.

But I have a partner who is willing to have sex. And there's the, uh, rub.

Who am I lying to most? Myself?

Would I really behave better or... differently... with anyone else? I mean, that's the real question in my mind.

If I stopped being afraid and became willing to be intimate with my current partner, would I instead find that I really had all I needed?

I want to be happy. I want everyone to be happy. Let's be happy.