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Author’s Note: Foul language and adult material ahead.  You’ve been warned.

I first realized I might have a problem several years ago, when I was in a serious relationship in college with a girl I thought I was going to marry.  I’ll call her Kelly.  Kelly is an artist–not the painting or drawing type, but the physical type.  Dancing, singing, acting.  She is really quite talented.  She is also the third woman I ever slept with.

And oh man, was she ever good.  Her dance experience made her particularly strong and limber, and the things we did together were just amazing.  She was curious in bed, willing to experiment and try new things (many of which I’m sure I’ll write about at a later date).  She was eager to please, and she could perform fellatio better than anyone I’ve been with since.  Couple her natural sexual abilities, trim body, and desire to experiment to a generally kind and compassionate soul, and she was one hell of a catch.  Our adventures together are still a subject of consideration on my part.

One weekend, she went out of town to visit her family.  A girl I had met a few months prior showed up at the store where I worked and was following me around as I performed my retail duties, chatting with me about this or that and flirting quite heavily with me.  After work, we ended up at her place, where we fucked ourselves silly for a good four hours.

This sort of behavior wasn’t at all unusual for me.  By this time, I had cheated on Kelly multiple times with her best friend, my previous ex-girlfriend, an old friend from high school, my best friend’s girlfriend, and several random girls I’d met at parties.  It had never meant anything more than a bit of fun, being involved with someone and knowing them as well as anyone can.  But that night was different because I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in this girl.  She was simply unappealing in every sense of the word.  Kelly was beautiful, funny, smart, great in bed, and as crazy about me as I was about her.  This girl was pointedly unattractive, a sleazy cliché of a human being, something I realized halfway through our marathon sex session.  She was nothing more than a friend to me, and a poor one at that, yet there I was, having sex with her.  I felt true revulsion for myself and what I was doing, to myself and to Kelly.  But it sure didn’t stop me from doing it.

I left the girl’s house with a sick sensation in my gut, for the first time feeling truly guilty for what I had done.  It was an immediate guilt that passed quickly when Kelly came home, but I will always remember it as the first time I was ashamed of myself for what I had done to someone for whom I cared so deeply.  It was a sensation that I have experienced over and over again since then.  Sex with that girl is now part of an incredibly long list of examples of how weak I am, a list that I view with a mingled since of guilt and nostalgia, because no matter how ashamed I may be of myself, thinking about what I’ve done and with whom always turns me on.  The guilt is overshadowed by recalling the pleasure of feeling a warm body pressed against and around me, the smell of sweat and exertion, the moans and grunts and everything equally disgusting and exciting about giving your body to someone else for their pleasure.  And I desperately crave that feeling, in equal parts genuine contrition and blissful disregard for anything but that single moment of ecstasy.

……………man.  I’m still not sure if I’m truly a sexual addict, but having written all of this down, I can say one thing for certain.

I might be one sick puppy.

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3 Comments

  1. I have indeed been remiss.

    • I wouldn’t say so. I don’t think anyone finds a lot of pleasure in digging through the full backlog of a favorite blog. We just keep up with the present postings and leave it at that. Frankly, I’m just glad to have you around at all!

      • No. I was remiss. I got caught up and didn’t dig. I like what I found!


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