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Another blogger commented recent on my post about feeling sexually deprived while still being surrounded by sexuality.  Because it was left as a public comment, I feel no compulsion to maintain the anonymity of chely5150, but it was lengthy enough that I decided to go ahead and respond publicly, as I have before.

I classify this correspondence as more misplaced rage, and I invite chely5150 to read that post, as it applies here. In summary, chely5150 suggests that Ashley’s lack of interest in sex is likely my fault. She cites her own experiences with an unfaithful husband and a lack of love and respect in their marriage as a reason for her own disinterest, and says that such could contribute to our situation. (It is worth noting that my and Ashley’s sex life has improved substantially from what it was in the roughly two years since writing the post eliciting her comment.)  Snippets and responses are as follows, and you can read the full comment on the original post.

I was, AM the wife who wants to explore and discover all things sexually together with my husband and we did, until the emotional covert emotional abuse began. After years of abuse, so perfectly concealed behind the facade of our perfect little family… I became Ashley. I no longer found that much pleasure [in the man] who adored and loved my body but NEVER could find the need to adore and love ALL OF ME!

I can certainly see how emotional abuse could make you lose sexual interest in your partner.  But let me be perfectly clear–that has never happened in our relationship.  For whatever problems Ashley and I may have had, we have never been abusive toward one another, and she has always insisted that I am the most loving, compassionate person she has ever known, and that I am an excellent care giver and provider for her.  One could arguably define my infidelities as “covert abuse”, to use your phrasing, but frankly, I wouldn’t. Sure, it’s scummy, but I would not go so far as to call cheating “abusive behavior”. (But I invite psychologists/counselors to provide evidence to the contrary.)

So, right out the gate, your experiences do not apply to us.  But let’s continue.

And I began to loathe the man who could treat everyone (pretty much) with such love and care and respect that I HATED evry thing about him.

If I understand you correctly, you’re suggesting that you hated him for loving and respecting everyone around him, but not yourself? I can also see how that might be painful. But it also strikes me as slightly selfish and demanding of you. I obviously can’t speak to your personal situation, and I have no desire to belittle or demean you, so I will simply let that comment stand as is.

And yet I loved him, I tried to leave him a couple of times but could never fully escape. After many years of depression I decided if we were going to stay together dammit I was going to make it better for us. And we did (yeah ah huh) and others thought too until the day I discovered his affair. And then weeks later when I discovered so much so- it has been excruiciating to say the least.

Ahh, and now we come to the point of this message.  Your husband cheated on you, and you see much of him in me and what I write.  Fair enough, I suppose.  Lord knows I’m a cheater.  But if I may ask, have you determined *why* your husband cheated on you?  Have you given any thought as to whether you may have done something, or a series of somethings, that might make him want to fuck someone else?  Or is it genuinely that he is simply a cheater?  Note that both are plausible, but given the resentment you display toward him, the evidence would suggest that unhappiness on his part might have caused his behavior.  Again, I don’t have the complete picture, so I can’t say definitively.  But have you considered that the fault may not lie solely with him?

They say I have PTSD, but I just go forward…..

May I encourage you to seek counseling for that?  PTSD following such an event is, to my understanding, a common reaction, and you may very well be suffering from depression.  Please, dear reader, see someone.  I suspect my close friend Hyacinth might be able to offer guidance here.

So while I fucking hate you with all my being…

I bet you’d love me if we met.

…I respect the fact that you are being honest…

Oh. Well, thanks.

…as much as one could expect honesty from a LIAR…

My, that’s awfully manic of you.

…being on the other side of those sheets and knowing but not knowing is probably the hardest thing to live with.

This is something that, again, doesn’t really apply to me.  If Ashley were to find out about my infidelities, I would own them.  Once caught, you’re done for.  Best to fess up to it and hope to salvage something from the wreckage than to pretend the boat didn’t crash.  But, in your case, you have my condolences.  Knowing but never receiving a confession is a good way to breed resentment and often prevents any sort of closure.

Maybe just maybe You had something to do with your wifes sex needs diminishing. If it went away there is a reason.

By Ashley’s own admission, her lack of sexual interest stemmed from three things: 1) experiencing physical pain from having sex with me due to my girth (which, thankfully, has resolved since we have begun fucking more regularly); 2) insecurity due to gaining weight post-marriage; and 3) a lack of sexual experience sufficient to keep up with my own interests.  She has since come out of her shell, remarkably so, and our sex life and marriage have never been better.

Who the fuck died and made you GOD? What makes you think you deserve to have your every desire fulfilled?

I never claimed to be God, or that I deserved to have my every desire fulfilled.  To suggest otherwise would imply you haven’t read all of my work.  (Not that I expect you to.  Hence, my response.)  I have long struggled with controlling my sexual urges, balancing them against my desire for a fulfilling and loving marriage.  But when you go months at a time without having sex, the ability to resist–hell, the *desire* to resist–disappears.

No man “deserves” to get laid, regardless of marital status.  A woman’s body is her own, and she gets to decide what she does with it, and when.  Period.  But, relationships are partnerships, and if one partner is not sexually fulfilled, well, don’t be surprised if he/she seeks that fulfillment elsewhere.

Maybe if YOU put as much effort into your marriage-not just sexually either, you wouldn’t have put yourself and Ashley (although unbeknown to her) into such a lose/lose marriage.

No one who knows me can accuse me of not putting effort into my marriage.  I haven’t written about it much, but Ashley and I have been to several counselors, alone and together, in pursuit of a “fixed” marriage.  We have spoken at length about it over coffee, breakfast, drinks.  We have cried together because we thought we were failing.  And we have celebrated our not-so-recent upswing.  And, from a domestic standpoint, she and I are true partners, sharing evenly the housework and financial burdens.  Not to brag, but she calls me “the perfect husband”.  (I am far from it, mind, but it makes me smile when she says it.)

Do yourself a favor decide which you want. Can’t have both little boy, don’t work like that! You should show Ashley the respect she deserves and let her choose for herself- No one gave you that privilege. It’s not right -if you love her as much as you say you do GIVE HER THAT RESPECT.

I don’t love and respect anyone enough to give them that, because I am selfish.

Please don’t let my differing opinion affect the fact that I enjoyed your writing, I find it brutally honest and appreciate knowing the thoughts of a sex addict as I am discovering that I have been married to one for a long time.

Well, I do appreciate that, though I would not classify myself as a sex addict.  I once wrote about that possibility, but I don’t think I am so deep into my compulsions to be considered a nymphomaniac.

I am in the deciding process in my marriage, is this what I want for the rest of my life? The jury is still out on that one.

I wish you the best of luck in that.  Choosing whether to continue or end a marriage is not a pleasant endeavor, and I truly hope it works out well for you, chely5150.

Pro tip: You have to take the venom out of your words and be less accusatory if you want me to refrain from responding with so much snark and sarcasm.  Though, admittedly, I use much less of both herein, maybe because I truly sympathize with what you’re experiencing.  Before I was the hopeless cheater I am today, I was cuckolded by the woman I loved, and it left a lasting impression, and I can tell you are hurting.  I don’t want to contribute to that.

Or maybe I’m just going soft in my old age.

There is something that has been wiggling around in the back of my mind for a while now. It’s relevant to the spirit of this blog, if not the usual content, so I’m putting it here. Please indulge me as I wax philosophical.

You may have picked up from reading my work that I am a taaaaad bit narcissistic, but not in the traditional sense. I do not think I am beautiful to behold. Hell, I don’t think I’m even remotely close to attractive. I find myself to be decidedly bland, probably because I likely have a very skewed definition of what it means to be a handsome man. No matter how many people tell me I am handsome or athletic or insert compliment here, all I see are flaws. Ask anyone who’s seen me–I’m nowhere close to what Men’s Health would have you believe a man is supposed to look like, no matter how much I wish I were. Maybe that’s why I sympathize so deeply with the body positivity movement.

But those flaws drive me to constantly strive to better myself. They are the reason I spend hours powerlifting, wailing on the heavy bag, flipping those tires. I am never satisfied, so I work harder. I don’t care what trainers and doctors tell me–I am not where I need to be. There is a handsome man in there somewhere. I just have to chisel away the body fat to find him.

Man. That’s a hard thing to admit.

I describe myself differently here than in my prose, because I acknowledge that my perception is deeply flawed. It’s not a healthy outlook, but there it is. I know I am strong, and fit, and active. But I hold myself to an unrealistic ideal that I don’t hold for any other human being, anywhere in the world. I want more from myself. I want that beach body, damn it.

That said, I really, really hate body shaming.

Look, I know that no normal person is going to say, “Body shaming? Why, that’s just keen!” I would like to believe that the majority of us are going to hear that phrase and respond with appropriate levels of disgust and sympathy. No one should ever be made to feel uncomfortable in their own skin by another person. Ever. That shit isn’t cool. And hopefully, on some level, most of us believe that.

None of the women in my life–that is to say, Tina and Ashley–are slender. But they are *fit*. Tina is a runner and outdoor enthusiast. Ashley is an all-around athlete and yogini. They have curvature, and softness to them, but they are hard where their hobbies require them to be. They do not go out of their way in pursuit of the elusive beach body, but still they are beautiful women. I’m not sure they would be considered “plus-size”, but even if they would, that would not be a bad thing, because they are both fucking *hot*, just in very different ways.

Point is, it doesn’t much matter to me what a person weighs. It shouldn’t really matter to anyone except ourselves. I feel bad for people who see themselves the way I do, because it’s a pretty unhappy way to live sometimes. I wish more people would find comfort in themselves rather than the ridiculous expectations set by Western media and marketing. But at the same time, I suspect that even those who are active in the body positivity movement still have moments of discomfort, when they look in the mirror and think, “If I could just shed another five pounds…” We are driven to outperform other people. It’s what all animals do. We compete, we mate, we produce offspring that will compete with our competitors’ offspring. Civilization may permit us to overcome some of that nature, but I doubt it will ever be fully removed from the human condition.

Hmm. I didn’t so much share my thoughts as I did ejaculate words into a formless puddle on my keyboard. But this was never intended to go anywhere. It’s just something I’ve been chewing on lately. So many women I’ve talked to have told me how unhappy they are with their appearance, how self-conscious they are about their image, when, damn it, there is *no reason* for them to feel that way. Tina and Ashley included. Then they tell me, “I wish I looked like you,” and I am dumbstruck, because I legitimately don’t see it.

Anyhow, enough of this meandering little monologue. To all the ladies and gentlemen that read this blog–you are beautiful/handsome exactly as you are. Should we ever meet in person, I’ll be happy to prove it.

Working on another memory now. It’s one I’ve been holding onto for a while, so I’m not sure if or when I’ll be putting it up. Maybe soon. Until then, friends.

If you’ve ever read my pages “Players on my Stage” or “What the Categories Mean”, you’ll have noticed that I talk a lot about Kelly as being a major contributor to who and what I am today.  The following memory is an example of why I think so.

—————————————————————

My cell phone vibrates beside me, the sound of plastic rattling against my wood desk drawing my attention from my writing.  I pick it up and look at the screen.  My heart skips a beat.  Slowly, almost cautiously, I flip the screen up and hold the thing to my ear.  I try to sound natural.  “Hello?”

“Hey!”  Kelly sounds happy, an uncommon occurrence since our break-up months ago.  “What are you doing?”

“Oh, writing a paper on insulin-like proteins as growth factors in fruit flies,” I respond.  It’s hard to sound nonchalant when you talk about neurobiology, but I think I pull it off nicely.  “What are you up to tonight?”

“Cleaning my house,” she answers.  “I’m trying to move my furniture around too, but my piano is too heavy.  Can you maybe come over and help me out a bit?”

She needs my help.  Figures.  “Oh, well… I’m kind of busy right now.  I have to get this paper finished before Friday so I can work on my capstone reading over the weekend, so I don’t think–”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”  Kelly’s voice takes on that tone.  Husky, almost raspy, but full of promise.  It sets my stomach turning in eager anticipation, and my breath catches.  She knows that got my attention, and I detect a hint of victorious smugness when she says, “The sooner you get here, the better.”

I swallow and find my voice again.  “I’ll be there in twenty.”

Kelly still lives in our old apartment.  I moved out when she broke up with me, but she decided to stay and “make new memories”.  I pause at the door and consider the nature of those memories.  After we parted ways, Kelly gave herself over completely to her baser instincts, not because she wanted to explore them, but, I suspected, because she wanted to hurt me.  And she did.  Often.  Calling me while she was being fucked by a stranger, just so I could hear her moaning.  Sending me pictures of her sucking another guy’s dick.  Bragging about her raunchy encounters with multiple partners when I show up at the bar, then laughing when she sees the pain on my face.  Even her best friends apologize to me for her behavior, assuring me she’s only doing it to make me suffer, and she doesn’t talk about it when I’m not around.  I know Kelly is only concerned about making me as miserable as she’s become over the past year, and I know that doing what I know will inevitably happen tonight will only drive me deeper into the ground.  Yet there I stand at the door, knocking lightly, waiting for her to appear at the door.

And when it finally opens… holy shit.

Kelly swings the door wide.  Her dark hair is pulled back into a working bun, and she has her librarian-styled reading glasses on.  And that’s it.  From head to toe, she is completely nude, and she leans against the door in such a way that every muscle in her dancer’s figure flexes tantalizingly.  She must have just shaved every inch of her body in preparation for my arrival, because her skin looks even more smooth than usual.  I can plainly see how moist and swollen she is, even from here.

“Hey there handsome,” she greets me cheerfully.  “Come on in.”

I just stand there and gawk.

Kelly quirks an eyebrow and smirks at me.  She steps out of the apartment and stands no more than an inch away from me, in clear view of anyone that might happen to walk by.  “You gonna make me stand out here naked?  Because you know I’ll do it.”

Wordlessly, I let her lead me inside.  She walks away from me, swaying her hips more than her stride would dictate.  Her ass is truly heart-shaped, toned from years of dance training, and she continues to smirk as she watches me stare at it.  “When you’re done ogling my ass, I’d appreciate it if you would move the piano so I can vacuum under it.”

I move the piano as instructed.  And the dining room table.  And the entertainment center.  And the couch.  It’s hard work by yourself, but every time I move another piece of furniture, Kelly rewards me by cleaning in the most erotic manner possible.  She pushes the vacuum farther than necessary, stretching her legs and torso, bending at the waist to give me a clear view of her pussy.  She stands almost on point to remove the cobwebs at the corners of the ceiling, her calves flexing, ass tightening, chest jutting forward.  She purposely spills water on her breasts and stomach as she washes the windows, again exposing herself to the outside world.  All the while, I watch, and work.  I feel almost drunk, my mind is so foggy, not thinking, just absorbing her every movement, her every command.

Several hours pass, and the apartment is spotless.  Kelly sighs and stretches languidly as she admires the room.  “Much better.”  Then she looks catlike toward me.  “I guess you want your reward.”

I’m so lightheaded I can’t find any words.  Kelly walks to the piano, pulls the small bench out, and straddles it.  As she spreads her legs open, her lips part, and she’s so aroused that, when she sits on the bench, she leaves behind a faint line of moisture.  She notices the line and smiles wickedly, then leans back against the piano and says, simply, “Clean that up.”

I move toward her and obediently fall to my knees before the bench.  I reach toward the moisture with my hand, but she grabs it and pushes it away.  “I didn’t say you could use your hands.”

I consider this as deeply as my befuddled brain will permit, which is to say, I don’t.  Instead, I lean my face toward the bench, no more than a breath away from her center.  I can smell her wetness, and feel the heat radiating off her.  I run my tongue across the bench, tasting first the sharp, acrid tang of polished wood, then the salty sweetness of her, the residue she left behind when she sat.  I do so slowly, not because I want to be sexy, but because my body will simply not work any faster.

I hear her say, breathlessly, “Very good.  Now clean me up.”

My face lifts, and I run my tongue across her.  I keep my hands on my knees as instructed, using only my mouth to pleasure her.  I trace the shape of her with the tip of my tongue, then lick heavily from anus to clit.  I lap up every drop of moisture she has.  And I keep going.  Heavy strokes of my tongue from bottom to top, slowly, methodically.  No variety, no deviations, I just do precisely as I’m told.  She makes no sound, no movement, nothing to suggest that she enjoys any of it.  So I am caught off guard when I feel her spasm beneath my tongue.  I look up toward her and see her eyes half-lidded, her mouth open in a wordless moan, as she cums harder than I’ve ever seen her before.  So hard she bends at the waist, curling in on herself.  So hard she even squirts a little, filling my mouth and covering my chin and shirt.  And I keep going, swallowing what she gives me as she cums again, licking her deliberately, until she finally gives in and pushes my head away from her.

Kelly breathes heavily, still leaning against the piano.  “Fuck you’re so good at that.”  I smile a little and start to remove my shirt, but she grabs my hand.

“Sorry honey, but no sex for you.  I’ve got Tony coming over in a while.  But thanks for getting me ready.”

Wait… what?

“I’ve got to take a shower.  Run along now, little doggy.”  Kelly climbs off of the bench and walks to the bathroom, leaving me sitting on the floor, covered in her juices.  I hear the shower activate and realize she’s serious.

I was right.  She just wanted to hurt me.  And she knew exactly how to do it.

I should be angry.  Fuck, I am angry.  But instead of confronting her, I simply stand up, put on my jacket, and leave the apartment.  It’s an all too familiar sensation, walking out of that place, knowing what she will be doing in a few hours, and being completely powerless to prevent myself from feeling betrayed, and used, and hurt.

“Serves you right,” I say to myself.  There is no bitterness in the words.  Only objectivity, as if I truly deserve to feel this way.  And on some level, I think I do.

Yesterday, I missed my daily update.  I’m sure you were all worried about me.  (I knew there was a reason I love you guys!)  For that, I thank you, and I present the explanation as to why I was absent.

Note:  I am not proud of this story, but it is what it is.  If you are bothered by violence, or human suffering in general, I warn you, don’t read this.

I have returned to civilization from the frozen expanse that is northern Canada.  I spent yesterday traveling (hence my first failure to make a daily post), hours by car and by plane, trapped in close confines with people I would rather not be near, and assaulted by conflicting aromas of dried meat, sweat, and old lady perfume, three scents that, their powers combined, become a force of nature.  Having tolerated it with all the grace I could muster after weeks of isolation in pristine boreal forest, I felt like having a beer, so I walked around the little town I’m working in for this last week and hit the first bar I found.

The place was a dive.  Swayze himself couldn’t have broken up a fight there.  Dim lights, dirty walls, and a human stink so palpable I could, quite literally, taste it in the back of my mouth.  Salty, and slightly acrid.  It was truly foul.  But I wanted that beer.  So I sat at a table and waited for the waitress, who was about as rude as imaginable.  She wouldn’t accept a debit card, so I had to get money from the ATM.  (Earning the bar another $3.00 in the process.  Bastards.)  I tipped her extra for the trouble I had caused.  She just smirked and walked away.

I quickly realized that the bar wasn’t outsider friendly.  People kept looking at me and talking.  I kept hearing the word “fag” bandied about, which led me to consider my attire.  I was in my standard Don’t-Die-In-The-Frozen-North attire.  Black merino wool shirt.  Black fleece pants.  Black wool beanie.  Black North Face boots and coat.  Lots of black, granted, but it keeps you warmer if it happens to be sunny, and the athletic cut of it all shows off my physique nicely.  (It’s not vanity, it’s poor self esteem and an overwhelming need to be found attractive.  Shut up, you’re missing the story.)  Couple it all to a four-week-old Canadian beard, and I thought I looked pretty damned good, like I should have been on one of those posters you see at outdoor equipment stores, scaling a sheer rock face or wrestling a moose by the antlers or something.

The regulars, however, thought I looked like “a fuckin’ liberal”.  I am, but that is, apparently, to be frowned upon.  (I also fail to see how they ascertained my political inclinations based on my rugged yet rather dashing appearance.  But I digress.)  But I wanted that beer.  No, at this point, I fucking deserved that beer.  So I smiled cheerfully at them, raised my bottle in a friendly toast, and watched the Super Bowl.  They were rooting for the Patriots.  So was I.  But I cheered the Giants, because the regulars cheered the Patriots.  Because I am petty, and fuck them.

Woosah.

However, despite my best anti-Patriots sentiments and my liberal-hippie-fag appearance, one of the women found me attractive, and proceeded to tell me so.  I have frequently said that I love women regardless of their appearance, and it’s true.  But couple a generally sleazy, trashy exterior to a vapid interior, and wrap it all in a Jim Beam label, and I am pointedly repulsed.  Yet I am a rather polite lad, so I did my best to hold a conversation with the young old lady.

Her boyfriend didn’t like her talking to me, and expressed his distaste by yanked her away from the table so hard she yelped in pain.  He then leaned down into my face and accused me of… fuck if I know, actually.  There was something about “his” woman and my intentions, but I was too distracted by “his” woman.  She had tears in her eyes and was rubbing her arms where he had grabbed her.  I could see red handprints.

I got to my feet and ignored the guy.  I walked around him and approached her.  I asked her if she was okay.  She looked confused by my concern, and frightened.

I want to preface the following by saying that I despise violence.  Fighting is dangerous, and anyone who enjoys it, or goes looking for it, is seriously fucked up.  But I got my ass kicked enough in high school that I know what it feels like to be hurt, and to be afraid, and I would never wish those feelings on anyone.  So I spent a very long time learning how to defend myself and others.  When I felt confident, I taught free practical self defense courses at a local women’s shelter near my hometown.  Some of those women had stories that still give me nightmares.  And that experience made me very, very volatile when it comes to abuse.

People say time seems to slow down when you fight, but that’s not accurate.  The flood of adrenaline makes you hyperaware.  It makes me remember every detail of every fight I’ve ever been in.  So I remember exactly how the guy’s face looked when I wheeled on him and struck him square in the throat with my left elbow.  When he staggered backward, he looked surprised.  Then the pain hit, he looked ill.  When he fell back against the table and fell on the ground, clutching his throat, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come, he looked terrified.  When he could breathe again after a few seconds, he gagged, and looked sick again.  When his abused girl ran to him, screaming, he looked humiliated.  When he pushed her away, making her fall over a chair, he looked angry again.

I don’t know what I looked like as I jumped on him, sat on his chest, and beat him.

It makes me sick thinking about it.  It really does.  I’m not proud, at all.  I’m ashamed of myself for not having more control.  But fuck, she was just checking on him.  She wanted to make sure he was okay.  Stockholme Syndrome maybe, or true love that knows no boundaries.  I don’t know.  But I just fucking lost it.  And I beat him until the skin over my knuckles and elbow tore.  Until I heard what I suspect was his jaw cracking.  Until a heavy boot kicked me in the ribs and sent me flying across the bar.

No amount of training can stop you from getting your ass beat and thrown out into the street by five-plus guys.

I spent last night at an emergency room, getting stitched and x-rayed to the point of developing superpowers.  Fortunately, nothing is broken, except my sense of self-worth.  I am, however, incredibly sore, bruised, and stiff, and there was a bit of blood in my urine.

But the pain pills are delicious.

Writing these entries has inspired me to think more critically about sexuality in general, and the stereotypes associated with it.  I’ve been reading a lot of blogs and articles lately on the subject, from professionals and laymen alike, but mostly personal accounts from people struggling with issues related to my own.  (In particular, I find the blogs of MsTitty, Fuck & Schmuck, and Lynn very insightful when it comes to sexuality, yet representing very different sides of a multifaceted issue.)  Everyone takes a different approach and has wildly differing opinions on the subject.  So, I thought I would weigh in on the matter.

EDIT:  I would be remiss to not also mention Sexual Life of a Wife and TerriblyTorn13.  I love their stories.

I find it troubling that so many people are bothered by being hypersexual.  Modern western society is all about empowering the individual to be the individual.  Everyone is different, everyone has his or her own needs and wants and desires.  You are a beautiful and unique snowflake, Tyler Durden, and you are entitled to pursue your dreams, whatever the cost, come Hell or high water.  You want to go climb Everest?  Don’t forget your supplemental oxygen.  You want to stand on the corner playing music?  Here’s your tip hat, hope you like fedoras.  You want to write?  Here’s a new blogging website just for you.  Ours is a culture of entitlement and personal success, and you are encouraged to pursue whatever wishes and dreams give you the strength to get up in the morning.

Why, then, do people feel guilty about wanting to pursue the pleasure of sex?

This isn’t a rhetorical question.  I really don’t get it.  Sure, sex is dirty.  It’s wet, slippery, sweaty, exhausting, smelly.  Pick your adjective.  But it’s also incredibly beautiful.  It’s personal.  Intimate.  It’s you giving everything you are to someone else.  And it is fucking glorious.  It’s the one thing that the majority of people can agree that they love to do.  So why do we so often feel ashamed of engaging in what is arguably America’s real favorite pastime?

If I had to pick a response–the usual gun to the head give me an answer scenario–I would say it’s because, as forward-thinking as we like to be, our culture’s approach to sex is still so fucking draconian.  One man and one woman, period.  Promiscuity is to be avoided at all costs, and open relationships are in direct defiance of the societal norms.  And God forbid you even think of trying anything homosexual, because if it’s not gonna produce babies, then it must be wrong.

Quick factoid.  All those religious arguments against homosexuality based on Biblical scripture are based on one of the first Jewish laws, that a good Hebrew was to procreate and populate the earth.  Homosexuality in and of itself, as an act of lovemaking to your same sex, wasn’t taboo.  It was wasting a baby-making opportunity that was frowned upon.  If you doubt this, I recommend researching Hebrew religious law, particular the history of Leviticus.  It will blow your mind.

Back on topic now.  I don’t think that our society’s view on sex is a product of religious morals.  Not anymore, anyway.  Originally, yes, certainly.  But with the rise of the scientific method and a general turning away from religion, there must be something else driving it.  Again, if I were to posit an answer, I would cite two reasons: 1) Entitlement, and 2) Infringement.

First, entitlement.  We, as unique snowflakes in pursuit of our dreams, believe we are entitled to happiness.  Hell, it’s even in the U.S. Declaration of Independence–“…that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are LifeLiberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”  This is the basis of our culture.  And sex makes us happy.  Therefore, we are entitled to it.

Second, infringement.  You, as a snowflake competing for your happiness atop my snowy mound, are not entitled to your happiness when it infringes upon mine.  Therefore, denying sex to me when it would otherwise make me happy makes you an obstacle to be surmounted.  And if you leave me, or give my God-given right to sex to someone else, then you are a traitor to the American way of life.

Couple entitlement and infringement, and you end up with the monogamous relationships so common today.  One man and one woman, committed to each other at face value, but often pursuing the elusive Side-Tail.  Jealousy runs rampant.  Divorce skyrockets when couples realize that their capital-aych-Happiness is not theirs alone, but being shared with Someone Else.  It’s a recipe for disaster, a cauldron bubbling over with overpossessive assholes, codependent pricks, and dishonest jerks generated by a system at odds with our desire to just be fucking happy.  Hell, I’m one of ’em.  (Well, dishonest, anyway.  Never been much for jealousy, and I’m too independent to be needy.)

I don’t think this is ever going to change.  At least, not within my lifetime.  It will be a very long time, if ever, before people realize that the happiness of their genitals need not depend on being in or around the same other set of genitals forever.  But this doesn’t mean that we, and by we I mean sexually obsessed or otherwise hypersexual people, should be ashamed of our wants and needs.  Hell, I think we should embrace them.  It’s not always that easy, since finding other people who share your particular viewpoints and proclivities can be incredibly difficult, but isn’t that sort of the point of all this, being happy and comfortable with who and what you are?

Society wants us to be unique, except when it strays from what they define as “unique” and borders on “deviant”.  Then we’re something to be shunned, or mocked, or objectified, or even pitied.  I say fuck that.   If the world wants us to be ourselves, I say, do it.  Don’t give a shit what they think or say, live your life how you want to live it.  Never let yourself be shoehorned into a stereotype, into feeling as though you must, by default, feel and behave a certain way.  Own your life, and own your dreams.  Do what feels right to you.  If your behavior produces ghosts and demons, as mine does, then so be it.

At least they will be your ghosts and demons.

Hmm.  I’m not exactly sure where I’ve gone with this.  I seem to have ended up someplace totally different from where I had intended to arrive.  Ahh, the joys of writing from the heart.

Sorry I took a little time off there.  I needed to think about a few things.

I received an e-mail from someone who read The Mile High Club Has a Secret Knock.  I won’t copy and paste the whole thing, but rest assured, it was a nasty piece of work.  To summarize, she is a 24-year-old woman who just found out that her new husband of two years has been cheating on her.  Thus, speaking from experience, she told me that I am a horrible human being (as I have long suspected) for doing the things that I do, then “bragging” about them on a blog, because I will never know what it’s like to be betrayed so deeply by the person you love.  Yours truly, Angry Woman.

Well.  Allow me to retort.

Point the first.  To suggest that I don’t know betrayal is a ridiculous assumption.  I haven’t written about it yet (though I’m sure I will), but I’ve long believed that the source of my pseudo-addiction is having been betrayed by every girl I thought I loved (except Ashley, who redefines what it means to be a good person).  That sort of thing can really fuck a kid up.  I have been betrayed, Angry Woman, and I have betrayed, as I’m sure you have at some point.  Maybe not by cheating, but by lying, by gossiping, by ridiculing.  I don’t know anyone who hasn’t betrayed someone at some point, and I’ve known people who were one miracle away from sainthood.  So please, although I recognize that I may be a horrible example of a human being, don’t assume it’s because I know nothing about betrayal, and don’t assuage your anger at your husband by accusing me of being a stereotypical scumbag.  I may be a scumbag, but I am anything but stereotypical.  (Does that make sense?  I think it does.)

Point the second.  If you think this blog is about “bragging”, then you haven’t been reading.  You’ve been selectively scanning the entries looking for something to be angry about.  This blog has never, and will never, be a chronicle of my conquests, because they will never be conquests.  Well, maybe the events that happened within a relationship or that were otherwise not cheating.  But every one of my affairs–past, present, and future–is a mistake.  I won’t deny that they were (usually) exciting and intensely pleasurable, but I don’t look upon them with a sense of accomplishment.  I (usually) remember them, as I described in one comment, bittersweetly.  Something that should not have happened, but that now defines my history and makes me who I am today.  I like who I am, but not what I have done, and I would never brag about hurting people the way I have.  That’s the mark of a sociopath.

No, this blog is about me telling the goddamn truth for once in my life.  It’s almost a confessional, except that it’s not intended to absolve me in any  way.  It’s just a place for me to put my stories.  Why do I write so many of them as prose?  So that I can read them later and see the experience from another vantage.  Why do I post them?  Well, that I don’t know.  I get a little thrill every time I see a new comment, whether it’s the usual contributors or new readers, compliments on my writing or someone calling me out on the liberties I took in the story, a casual remark or a deeper analysis.  I do love that people read this, and I find the compliments, and occasional insults, give me a new kind of high.  The honesty I put into this blog has attracted more followers than I had ever thought (again, thank you all), and it makes me want to write more, to tell every story I have, the good and the bad, to completely recount the sexual rollercoaster that is my life.

(Oh yeah, that reminds me of getting a handjob on the Superman coaster at Six Flags.  Wow, I totally forgot that one.  See what I mean about “usually” remembering?  Okay, moving on.)

Angry Woman, I am truly sorry for your experience.  I am sorry that you gave so much of yourself to your husband, only to have him betray you.  I know what that pain feels like, and I would never wish it on anyone.  I hope you and your husband can find a way to resolve this, to repair the damage and come through stronger than ever.  If not, I hope your anger doesn’t consume you.  But, when you focus your anger on me as a surrogate for “men everywhere”, you really leave me no choice but to tell you to take your shit elsewhere.  Constructive criticism, and even harsh rebukes, I can take.  Accusations, not so much.

I’m working on another My Life As Fiction entry (a really good one, I think) and hope to have it up by tomorrow.  Spoiler alert: It’s about sex.  Best wishes to you all, readers.

Being in a committed, cohabitating relationship is difficult for most people.  It requires changing many things about your day-to-day life.  You hardly ever have true privacy anymore.  You have to share the television and the bathroom, and adapt to the awkward mid-slumber habits of your partner.  Then there are the little things that you often take for granted like when you wake up and go to bed, or where you eat your dinner.  It gets rough sometimes, especially in the early stages of a relationship when you’re still getting used to sorting their laundry from yours and can’t figure out how they like to have to towels folded.  But even when the going gets rough, young couples have something to fall back on: the sex drive of youth.  No matter how frustrated you may get with your partner, you can always release some of that stress in gloriously vigorous make-up sex.

Well, unless you’re me.  I live in a mostly sexless marriage.

I’m not really sure when it happened.  Before we got married, my wife–let’s call her Ashley–had a decent sex drive.  I was her first lover, and she showed real interest in trying new things in bed.  We experimented with different positions and styles of lovemaking.  We christened every room of our house in different ways.  We tried mutual masturbation, toys, movements, basically everything we could think of.  She would tease me in public places by flashing little glimpses of skin or illustrating that she wasn’t wearing anything under a thin dress.  It was this playful yet somehow innocent demeanor, coupled to a naturally athletic and curvaceous body, that held my focus so intently for so long, despite my compulsions to pursue sex wherever and with whomever I could.

But after we got married, she began to change.  It was a gradual shift in behavior–keeping her body covered more, responding less passionately to a kiss, merely laughing when I would suggest trying something new in bed.  We still had fun, sure, but after about a year and a half of marriage, we had begun to have sex every couple of weeks at best, sometimes going as long as a month with nothing more than cuddling on the couch.  My advances, which had once been met eagerly and with more passion than I had ever seen in a woman, were ignored or outright rejected.  No excuses were ever made, just, “No, I don’t want to have sex.”  When asked why, the answer was always, “I don’t know.  I just don’t want to.”

This trend has continued through our entire marriage.  There have been occasional increases in her sex drive, usually following my return from a long business trip, but we regularly go a month or longer without any kind of sexual interaction, despite my best efforts to the contrary.  This is bad enough for your average male, I’m sure, but to me, given my obsession with sex…  The closest analogy that comes to mind is the Allegory of the Long Spoons.  A bunch of starving people sitting around a pot full of food, trying to feed themselves, but the spoons they have are too long to be easily maneuvered into their mouths, and they can never get the nourishment they need.  This is the way I feel every day: malnourished, starved for the one thing I need to get by yet am constantly denied, despite being totally surrounded by it.  So, as I have always done in previous relationships, I get my fix from other places.

Let me be clear: there is no justification for what I do.  If you are reading this blog and thinking that I am a horrible human being, as I suggested in my last post, then you are 100% correct.  I am.  Because I love my wife more than words can describe.  She is the physical embodiment of everything good and decent in this world.  She is, in the most literal sense imaginable, my reason for living, and she deserves all the happiness that this world can muster.  Yet I betray her trust often enough that I have developed a rather strong hatred for myself.  I want more than anything to tell her the truth, to enlist her help in overcoming these urges I have, but that would mean destroying something beautiful, unique, and precious.  I can’t do that to her.

There is no justification.  There is no excuse.  I am a weak, selfish person, consumed by self-loathing and regret.  I know that one day I will be caught, and my life, everything I have and love so dearly, will be taken away, because of that weakness.  But in the moment, when I’m caught up in the act, tangled in bedsheets with some woman I just met a few hours earlier, I don’t think about the risks, the consequences, or the guilt.  The thing that causes me so much pain and worry is the one thing that makes me forget the pain and worry.  So I keep going back to it, and adding another potential nail to my marriage’s coffin.

There it is.  I am not a good or likeable person, dear reader.  Not the real me, anyway.  I put on a good and believable show, but the truth I keep tucked away beneath the already broken promises of faith and loyalty is a grimy, feculent thing.  It hurts to admit it, but there it is.

I think that’s enough introspection for one evening.

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.