Let’s get a little personal, shall we?
Tonight’s thought that refuses to die is: “silly shit I did for other people, and why.”
Nine times out of ten, I can almost assure you it was for the attention of a woman. Whether it be for potential extended companionship, or just a roll in the hay on a karaoke Friday night. I can’t see myself rolling my eyes, but I can surely feel it.
A decade ago, I jumped out of a marriage built on adultery and lies, and immediately into a lengthy relationship built on adultery and lies.
I’m not sure why I was so surprised when they both screwed around and lied. I should’ve written that prediction down somewhere, but I would’ve ignored it regardless. Because sex.
The absolute magnitude of torture I’ve endured for physical pleasure since age 15 is nonsensical. Or, maybe I was just perfecting my craft. It’s the only damned thing I was ever consistently good at, and that doesn’t win you any medals outside of Van Nuys. Do they still film porn there? Is that a dated reference since every spot on Earth is potentially a porn studio? Thanks, smart phones!
I won’t buck the ex-wives club tonight – godess knows I loved them all at one time or another and made all kinds of magic in the process – but the one night stands and flings between marriages were tiring, nightmare-inducing drama factories.
Don’t get me wrong, there were a couple here and there that I’d high-five if I passed them in the street, but I can’t get over the number of Gen X women running around out there who’ve never had a legitimate orgasm. I’m not making this up. They may have been, but I’m merely repeating what I was told.
To the few I could crack, I swear I thought they’d claw through the mattress and down into the next apartment. What a surprise that would’ve been for my downstairs neighbor! A climaxing, naked chick burrows through their ceiling mid-breakfast. I’ve never seen that in a horror film, or smut! The tough part was convincing the receiver it wasn’t some type of witchcraft. Men should be forced to take fuck-classes. We’re quite pathetic, collectively. We spend our adolescence bragging, and then we never bother learning to use it.
To the ones I couldn’t win over, in all my infinite wisdom and talent, I felt so horrible for them. They were mostly incredibly sexually active women, otherwise my alcoholic self wouldn’t have chased them in the first place, but why? Why sleep with everyone you meet if you’re not getting anything out of it?
To the ones who stuck around long enough to tell the tale, it all dealt with trauma from another man. Sometimes, it was an abusive boyfriend. Others, an overbearing father or a pervert uncle. I don’t know; maybe I’d stop beating myself up if I could just convince myself that it was all in the name of science.
I get it; I totally do. I was so inebriated one night about twenty years ago that I was raped by girl I knew. Not a day goes by when I don’t dwell on it for a moment but, hey, she got hers! Most guys struggle with finding the magic button, and I inadvertently located hers while she ground me against my will.
I grew up in such an over-sexualized generation, whether it be from our music, our movies, or our backseat rendezvous. In hindsight, it was also my downfall; my Kryptonite.
Give me a couple dozen names, and I’ll give you a couple dozen different ways to love a woman. In the end, there’s only one of those ways that matter. That’s the one you somehow land on when you least expect it in the most peculiar of circumstances.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever written on the subject of sexual psychology, and I’m not sure how I feel about it in this very moment. It’s a part of me, though. The successes, the failures, the embarrassing little quirks I recall in case I ever require blackmail ammunition. Sex both made and broke me; every aspect of my life, every reincarnation. Maybe the American divorce rate would drop if the church got out of the bedroom and we could normalize masturbation. How many bad dreams could we all have avoided if we would’ve just taken that extra minute or two in the shower? Not without Heavenly Father catching a chubb!
Seriously. Fire one off on your own first. If you still feel the same then, by all means, do the dirty. It was meant to be.
I still might not even publish this. It sure beats politics, though! I’ll sleep on it.
BY MYSELF.
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