Solosexuality

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To Be Or Not To Be....Slutty(er)

Am I the best slut I can be?  That is the question...

When you’re a sex blog writer, and your blog depends to a degree on your identification as a proud slut, these are the types of questions you ask yourself.  Even with all my constant self-analysis, I still, on some deep level, harbor some crazy notions.  Here’s one crazy notion:

I might meet the man of my dreams at a sex club or bar or bath house.  But if I act too slutty, he won’t think I’m relationship material.  So there I am, in a sexual environment, and I’m holding back, especially if I think a certain guy in particular is amazing.  What do I mean by acting too slutty?  How do you act too slutty at a bath house, for god’s sake?  Is jacking it in the XXX room too slutty?  I’ve gone to bath houses and acted almost demure, as if I accidentally wandered in and don’t really know where I am, because I’m such a good boy.  Almost as if I was above it all.  At sex parties I frequented in Montreal, I would never be the first to unleash my dick and start jacking it, or be the first to go down on someone, because what would people think?  Instead, I’d wait for those men with no social decorum to start the night off and I’d join in since I’m there already, so I guess I’ll try....

Just who the hell do I think I’m fooling?  Would anyone believe that because I hold back and am not the first one to whip my dick out at a sex party that I am somehow better relationship material?   There is no logic here.   This is extra super insane since I don’t think I’m necessarily looking for a relationship anyway?  So what is holding me back from my slutdom?

What’s holding me back is Josh.  And Brokeback Mountain.

Josh was my first love, at sixteen.  He was straight, a year ahead of me in high school, a distant friend, but treated me like gold when our paths did cross.  It was unrequited love, but it opened my flood gates, a true watershed moment, with my tears over him shed at a rapid rate.  In spite of everything, I’ve searched for Josh in every man I’ve met since, to no avail.  I don’t know if he exists.  I don’t even know if the Josh I put on a pedestal exists.  In my mind, he was perfect.  Perhaps he’s not.  I did not know him well enough to ever find out for sure.

Brokeback Mountain did to me what I think Titanic and Harlequin romances do to girls.  They all create a mystique around finding “the one”.  I wanted to find a Jack or an Ennis while herding sheep.  I saw the movie seven times, each time alone, to revel in the fantasy of true love.  But after seeing the movie for that seventh time, I had a dream one night in which I saw the faces of Jack and Ennis.  The two faces merged into one, and then transformed into my own face staring back at me.  And I realized that possibly, just possibly, the greatest relationship I may have is the one I’m having with myself.

My true self wants to free my inner slut.  Does my need at times for hardcore sexual degradation stamp out the possibility that love could be found there as well?  What if my dream man (if such an animal exists) is a slut aficionado?  Because whether you are the type who is the first to brazenly pull your cock out at a sex party, or the shy last one, it won’t make a shred of difference as to whether you are this so-called relationship-material type person. 

I realize that I am both a victim of and a perpetrator of slut shaming.  I have avoided men who seem to be having “too much fun” at the baths, making all kinds of assumptions about them (“too easy” “probably doesn’t play safe” “probably this” “probably that”).  Conversely, I envied the freedom of those men with every pore in my body.  I could offer a course in hypocrisy 101.

Men who have moved past shame are my heroes, because of the courage is takes.  For some reason, I’m afraid to let other men see my unbridled sexual desire, even in environments where it is damn well expected!  I hereby declare that I am taking the shackles off.  I need to amputate that shame so that I can be open to the joys such sexual openness might bring.  After all, who the hell is being served when I shackle myself?

Am I An Addict?

My interest in sex and sexuality is so acute that it was just a matter of time before I asked myself that dreaded question:  Am I a sex addict?  And since I like to throw back some beer while being sexual, am I an alcoholic on top of it?

Here’s what my sex life is like:  I like to masturbate every single day, and usually for at least 3 hours at a pop (pardon the pun).  This has been my pattern for years.  As for sex with others, for a long time it centered around internet or bar hook ups, just on weekends.  I had no desire for a relationship, lived alone and liked it (still do).  Interestingly, now that I live in a city where sex is easily accessible, I’m less compelled to hook up.  There are more enticing ways to be with men, such as the monthly orgies that I have been attending.  The more the merrier! 

So if masturbation is my most regular form of sex play, could I be addicted to it and its accoutrements (porn and booze)?  One could be, yes.  One definition of sex addiction I read was that sex becomes a problem if you are using it to avoid issues in your life that need to be dealt with, or if you are trying to mask pain you’re feeling through sex.  It reminds me of the movie Shame, in which the main character uses sex in this way.  But I conversely can’t be sexual if I have an outstanding issue in my life that needs resolution.

Here’s how it works:  I get home from a job where I give my best, and come home and deal with laundry, dishes, grocery shopping and making calls to loved ones.  On a weeknight, I try to have this all accomplished by 7 PM.  Then I unapologetically turn off the phone, turn on some music and allow myself to get turned on.  It’s Jason time.

Tell me something:  Should this be pathologized?  Is it because it’s about the oh-so-scary topic of sex that we pathologize it?  Is it not pathological to watch a movie every night?  To read a book in bed for hours at a time?  Why is your hobby ok and mine a sickness?  Are we pathologizing our behavior based on cultural norms and cultural fears only?

I researched further and found that some types of sexual addiction include:  compulsive fixation on an unattainable partner, compulsive love relationships, even compulsive sexuality within a relationship.  Well, this is everyone I know except for Sister Helen at the local parish.  Behavior that signals sex addiction is usually of the sort that goes against your values.  In one article I read, it said that many clients seeking help for an addiction to masturbation "report that their internal beliefs about masturbation are that the act itself is dirty, shameful, or sinful".  But as you can tell from my writing, I value my sexuality.  I had to fight hard to get here.  To get to my current worldview of sexuality, I had to unravel all the things I was taught (explicitly and implicitly) around sexuality.  Do I feel distressed about my sexual behavior?  No.  I feel distressed, though, by the opinions others might have about it.

Is it not possible perhaps that at least some of those who seek treatment for so-called sexual addiction are simply those who unnecessarily feel guilty about sex, masturbation and porn, and would benefit more from learning to accept that they are highly sexual and see it as a gift?

I am not at all disregarding the fact that sexual behavior can in many instances interfere with a healthy life.  As in the movie Shame, if sex is the recourse taken to avoid dealing with personal issues, then “Houston, we have a problem”.  At the same time, what if your edging sessions are done after you’ve attended to your emotional and literal responsibilities?  What if the three hours you would spend to go out to the movies is replaced by going online for some sex chat?  There are a lot of bad movies out there, folks.

The sexual addict often must lie or sneak in order to act out sexually.  I lie and sneak a bit too because as open as I am, I’m not open enough to say what I really want to say to friends and family: “Listen, I’m going to be self-pleasuring between the hours of 7 and 10.  The phone will be off.  But I will get back to you first thing in the morning.”

So I had to ask myself, am I in denial?  A few months ago, I tried a little experiment:  I decided I would try for two weeks to not drink during masturbation during the weekdays.  I would only drink on a Friday or a Saturday night bate session.  The first night, without booze to fuel my bate, I just couldn’t be bothered.  I bated for two minutes and gave up.  Instead, I transferred my desire and went to McDonald’s.  Not good.

The next night I tried masturbating again, without booze, and it was pretty terrific.  But porn fueled the event.  I wondered if I now needed to try bating without porn because maybe I was a porn addict.  Sigh.  How far would I go with this thinking?  Would I no longer be able to bate in front of the mirror because maybe I was a narcissist? How much would I have to take away, how short would my bate session have to be to not consider myself addicted.  There is a saying that a slut is anyone who has more sex than you do.  How would I ever know when too much was too much?

When Friday and Saturday hit, I let myself do my usual thing – I poured myself some whisky and bated away.  It felt odd to be under the hypnotic trance of booze combined with horniness again after a few days of sober jacking.  I felt that with booze, it was almost as if another force was driving my sexual car rather than I.

Then it unraveled.  Sunday night I was not intending to drink while bating, but I did.  On Monday, feeling guilty (there’s that word again) for drinking while jacking on Sunday, I didn’t jack or drink at all, but was oh so productive.  I read in bed, but had that feeling of “isn’t there something I should be doing?”

Since I wasn’t drinking as much, my liquor supply was stretching.  I began to worry that the cashiers at the liquor store would start wondering if I was ok or had been in a terrible accident.  I wasn’t buying as much liquor and began to worry about the economy.  I questioned myself:  Had I ever been arrested for public intoxication?  No.  Had I ever pissed the bed because I drank too much the night before?  Yes, but I’m a watersports lover, so I’m not sure that this is such a bad thing, especially when you have a fantastic mattress cover that you bought online from Fort Troff.  Had I drunkenly phoned anyone late at night and started the conversation with “...And you know what your fuckin’ problem is?”  No.

Suffice to say I threw the whole experiment out the window, continuing though to wonder if I had a problem.  I had read an article on sex and masturbation addiction and it was there that I’d gotten the idea to at least scale back my edging.  The article had suggested that one try to abstain from sex and masturbation for a month and to note the feelings one had had.  I couldn’t carry out this experiment for a week.  But fast forward to my present situation...

As of this writing, I have been living in Toronto for two weeks, having moved from Montreal.  And I am not living alone.  My sister and I have temporarily moved in together, to split costs, and I am sleeping in the living room.  I am living the movie Shame wherein the protagonist’s sister comes to stay and interrupts his sex habits.  I have no privacy whatsoever.  Now, her work often takes her travelling, and I’m longing for that work of hers to begin, but in the meantime, there is no jacking.  Why don’t I quickly rub one out in the shower you ask?  It’s just not my style.  If I can’t edge for a minimum of three hours, I won’t bother.  I’m just not satisfied with a quickie.  Sometimes me and my sister will share a bottle of wine, but that’s a far as the drinking goes.  My feeling is “Why drink?” if it’s not going to be accompanied by my hand (or someone else’s hand) on my dick.  The move was costly, so I can’t just hit the bars or bathhouses to pick up a trick.  I have to make do.

So how am I doing with this abstaining from lack of sexual activity?  I’m a bit grouchy but try not to let it show;  otherwise, I’m holding out until my sister starts travelling for work.  I’m getting more writing done and working out more, which admittedly makes me happy.  Today I’m going to sort through receipts since it’s tax time.  How exciting!  I’m more caught up with emails than ever before.  My friends have no idea why.

And so it goes. In the future, I will continue to keep one eye open for signs that I’m taking it too far with my sexual behavior.  On the other hand, perhaps a sense of humor about it all would be a nice change from the constant self-analyzing.  I did the online research for this essay on sex addiction hours before going out the door to the above-mentioned orgy! 

So for now, this is my message to You:  It’s 6:30 PM.  So if You want to chat on the phone, best call me now.  You’ve got until 7.  Then I’m going to have to excuse myself to spend a little time with myself.  I’ve spent all day attending to others, attending to the necessities of life.  But now Jason needs a little attention.  I’m not going to get all high and mighty on myself about this.  I’m the kind of guy who likes to throw back a beer and get naked – sue me.  One man on Xtube writes in his profile “I am a cock worshipping sex addict and fucking happy to be one.”  I laughed so hard in recognition and thought to myself that if I and he are sex addicts, oh well...forgive us.

Fetishes: PISS

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Xtube.com

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Booze

“One last drink, please.”  Last words on deathbed, Jasper Newton “Jack” Daniel (1849-1911, American distiller and founder of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey Distillery).

The orgy was BYOB.  And so, at home, I located three empty Gatorade bottles and filled them with Jack Daniels and coke, my absolute favorite drink.  I put them in my back sack, along with the other things one should always bring to an orgy: condoms, lube, poppers, some water, a tab of Viagra, and tic tacs to be oh so fresh.

The orgy was invite only.  I’d been to one of them before, the month previous.  It had been held at a bathhouse in the Village, where they had cordoned off a section for the orgy invites.  But tonight, for the first time, the organizers had found a space in a warehouse for the party.

I showed up at 11:30 PM and was greeted by Dominic, one of the organizers, who gave me a kiss and to whom I paid the $20 entrance fee.  Dominic, a bearded leather dude in his thirties, had flogged me at the previous orgy – something I’d never before experienced.  He promised to give me some new experiences tonight and pointed me in the direction of the coat racks.  To my surprise, just left of Dominic, were two men from a local safe-sex organization, standing at a table filled with safe-sex brochures and lots of condoms and lube.  They were there to answer any questions we might have about how to play safe and I thought, This is damn well organized.

At the coat racks, I hung up my winter coat and started to undress.  This orgy had a strict dress code: leather, rubber, jocks or you could be completely naked (“No deodorants or cologne please!”).  Tonight I would be wearing a leather jock, a leather ballcap, army boots and my black rubber wristband that sported two yellow stripes indicating my penchant for watersports.

I grabbed the first of the three bottles I’d brought of Jack and coke and headed into the main area.  It was tricked out with BDSM equipment I don’t even know the names for.  The room was dimly lit with a red sleazy glow, and a blue strobe light flashed psychedelic patterns along the far wall.  A cage was set to the right.  The room was already populated with about eight men, and we each found a spot to pose and preen, to eye each other and sip from the drinks we’d all brought.

I stayed that night for three hours.  The room only filled to about a maximum of twenty men, and I regret to inform you that I didn’t really feel attracted to most of them.  In attendance was a slave owned by the organizers.  He wore a sign that said if we wanted to play with him, we needed permission from the organizers.  Dominic’s partner, Cory, gave me this permission.  I approached the slave and...we talked.  I have a distinct need to know that my sex partner is attracted to me in order to have fun, and I felt that if I played with the slave, he would be doing it out of duty rather than pleasure.  In hindsight, perhaps that’s the key:  perhaps his duty was his pleasure.  But instead, I interviewed him about what it meant to be a slave, what his life was like.  Our conversation intrigued me, though I wonder if he questioned who let this leather-wearing Barbara Walters into the party.

By the second Jack and coke, I was sufficiently inebriated enough to doff my leather jock and enjoy the sensation of simply walking around naked, save for the leather ball cap and boots.  I watched men get fisted and fucked.  I dipped my toe in the water by letting my hands caress men as they caressed me.  But it was Dominic who came through for me in the end.  At my third Jack and coke, Dominic found me and led me to a separate room where he tied my stiff cock and balls up with a soft, forty-foot long rope.  Once it was completely tied, he pulled fast on the rope and it quickly unravelled, which set my cock bouncing and vibrating.  The sensation was one of pleasure and pain.  The slave joined the room and Dominic slipped on a condom and began to fuck him, while I sat on the floor licking the slave’s balls (his cock was locked up in a chastity device).  After a moment, I stood and the slave took my cock in his mouth.  Dominic pulled out of the slave, took off the condom, and made me suck him off.  With his cock in my mouth, he let go a stream of piss.  Like a champ, I devoured every single drop.

I left soon after.  I had to walk home, as the subway had stopped running by that point, but I didn’t live so far – just the equivalent of three subway stops.  When I reached home though, did I go to bed?  No sir, I did not.  I poured another Jack and coke.

At the orgy, I’d taken half a Viagra, just for insurance against nerves getting the better of me.  I’d also brought my trusty pill bottle filled with a week’s worth of cum, in case I had a notion to play with it at the orgy.  But that didn’t happen.  So now at home, I decided to continue the party alone, downed the second half of the Viagra and started to edge, pouring the cum over my face and pits and cock.

How many drinks did I consume before I finally hit the bed?  I don’t know, but I do know that in the wee hours of the morning, I was lying in a wet spot.  Evidently, I’d pissed the bed.  Tragic?  Not so much.  I have a cover for the mattress for piss play anyway.  I had been having erotic dreams, and only half awake, my hard dick made its presence known.  I lazily rolled onto my stomach, pressing my cock into the wet sheets.

But this is the turning point.  When you wake up soaked in your own piss after a bacchanalian night of revelry, you have to decide whether to feel shameful about it, or to feel that you’ve simply had quite a wild night.  I chose the latter and fell back to sleep.

When I awoke at three in the afternoon, I was hung over, but not of the headache variety.  I was rather still drunk.  And more to the point, I was intensely horny.  I got up and put on the kettle for some coffee to bring me back to the sober Jason that had to return phone calls and iron his work clothes for the week.  But while waiting for the water to boil, wearing only my underwear, I pressed my cock against the edge of the kitchen counter and I knew that my ironing would have to wait.

I was in a delicious booze haze and my cock wanted my full attention.  Now I was the slave, and rubbing my cock felt like an emergency.  I checked the fridge – all out of cola.  But I had lots of Jack.  Jumping in the shower, I rushed to ready myself to go out into the world for a brief, alcohol-dazed moment.  I ran – not walked, ran – to the grocery store kitty corner to my apartment block and bought cola and ran back to my apartment where I hastily poured a drink, shed my clothes, lit a cigarette, turned on some heavy metal, and positioned myself in front of the mirror.  I had everything I needed to edge, and I readied myself for that first, cataclysmic grab of my crotch.  In a hypnotic state, I rubbed my hand around my crotch over and over and over again, watching this in the mirror, in a state of religious ecstasy.  It was a communion with the earth, with my cock, my brain, my cock, the universe, my cock, my male brothers, my cock, my soul, my cock, my infinity.  Hyperbole, you ask?  If only.   I thought of the events at the orgy and it was as if the memory of the night was more powerful to me than the actual experience of it.

I eventually lost my erection, changed the sheets on my bed and fell into a twelve hour sleep.  Awaking for work the next morning, I felt still a little out of it, but not too bad.  Once again, while waiting for water to boil, I pressed my crotch against the kitchen counter and thought to myself “What a weekend.”

But a lost weekend?  Or did I find something?  What I experienced on that weekend was not a regular event that occurs every week.  Even still, I had to start asking questions (as is my wont).  Am I an alcoholic?  I only drink when my cock is involved.  If I go out to dinner with friends, I have no desire for a drink, since it’s a social occasion and not a cock occasion. 

But alcohol is part of every jack off, every sex experience.  So is alcohol just a tool I use to support my sex addiction?  Sex addiction is too large a subject to discuss in this essay.  I will come back to that another time.  The bottom line is that booze fuels my sexuality.  Why is it that when watching porn sober, it all seems fairly ridiculous.  When sober, I see the performers and wonder if they are happy and safe, whether they are only in it for the money or whether they get any pleasure from performing.  When drinking, it’s all hot and horny.

Years ago, I had sex with a man who was a recovering alcoholic.  He welcomed me to drink until I was hammered, as he put it.  I asked him if he missed drinking during sex and he said that sober sex was so much better.  I’m still not sure if I understand how that could be.  Is it that you can be fully present in a way you aren’t when drinking?  Are you more apt when sober to feel a truer connection to your partner?  Does alcohol give one the impression of loosening you up when really it shuts something down?

Most of the topics for this blog occur to me when I’m having a drink and masturbating.  The little booklet I write my ideas down in is stained with lube, my pens all sticky.  But I always write these essays sober.  Sober now as I write, I wonder if I’m peering into the rabbit hole by letting alcohol be such a steadfast part of my sexual behavior.  Or have I already fallen in?  Addiction, to sex, to alcohol, are topics to discuss later.  For now I leave you with this...

Jack Daniel never married, never had children.  And so I wonder – was he an earlier incarnation of a man like me?

Hometown Hook-Ups

As you may have gathered, I live in a large Eastern city, and I live in its Gay Village.  But previous to this, I lived in a small city near the Rocky Mountains, and I’m writing to you from there now, visiting on vacation.  My family picked me up at the airport early last week, and as we drove into the downtown core, I spotted a place that caused my soul to lurch with a wave of sentimentality.  The place?  The Holiday Inn Express Hotel.

We kept driving towards my family’s apartment building located on the fringes of downtown and we passed The Westin, The Coast Plaza Hotel and the Carleton Hotel.  As we drove, I did my best to chat and play the role of “son”, but seeing those hotels recalled a part of me perhaps more authentic than that of “son”.

In each of those hotels, I recalled a hook-up.

And it wasn’t just hotels.  I had lived in this backwater city for a decade, and had had hook-ups in homes and apartments dotted across town.  On this trip, there would be no time or opportunity for men.  I was here to see parents and friends, whom I hadn’t seen in almost two years.  On the plane, I had already begun to slip into the roles that I would play – that of son and buddy.  It wasn’t until I saw the Holiday Inn Express Hotel that I realized that the role I felt most authentic in was the one I played when naked with a man.  I looked forward to talking with my family and friends, but I longed even more to be back in room #212 in the Holiday Inn Express, where words weren’t always necessary.  Instead, I and another naked man with a matching need would communicate on a visceral level – with words, if necessary, but also with taste and touch.

We continued driving, and passed the apartment complex that I had lived in while residing here.  I thought not of the parties with friends, or the meals I’d burnt in the kitchen, or the view from my 23^rd floor window.  Instead, I remembered the men I’d welcomed over – some of whom I’d connected with, some of whom I hadn’t really, but respected all the same.  Respected them for skipping the niceties of normal society and baring their need to me.  They would leave and I’d be left to wonder what their “real” lives were like, the life in which they had to put a mask on and return to being a son, a brother, a friend, a banker, a waiter, a doctor.

During a hook-up, I was so unmasked and authentic, that I could also be terribly vulnerable.  I would sometimes say goodbye to a hook-up, leave his place, and feel that I’d left a part of my soul behind on his bedside table.  There would be times when I wouldn’t really connect with someone I was hooking up with and feel dirty afterwards, as if I had raped myself somehow, my emotions shaken and stirred.  But that feeling would subside, and I’d be online again, looking for the next hook-up.  

Because often I would luck out and really dig the guy I was hooking up with.  Yes, I realized that even during the hook-up, I was playing a role (that of sex buddy).  But the role did away with worldly pretense and most of all, hypocrisy.  Thus, the role felt authentic, at least to me, and the by-product of that was that I felt alive and realized.

Living here, I had felt so isolated as a gay man that I believe I hooked-up sometimes for the wrong reasons in order to just feel noticed.  Now, living in a Gay Village, I am no longer isolated and therefore less inclined to hook-up out of desperation.  I used to think that hook-ups were just about getting off.  But if that were so, we could all just jerk off.  No, we hook-up because we need to be seen.  We need our authentic sexual needs acknowledged and accepted.  Even if we like being single, and feel that we are not the marrying kind, we still need to be touched occasionally (touched gently if you wish, or slapped hard by a gorgeous dom Master).

The new trend for gays is to resist being ghettoized and to not live in a Gay Village.  But here I am in my old town, and the world feels and looks so straight that I feel like a ghost walking through it. I feel a void here that cannot be filled by terrific parents and loving friends.  I feel castrated and lonely, and I would sleep with just about anybody just to be recognized as a fellow gay traveller. 

I’m ready to go home.

Self Love

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Tattoo

With this essay, I know there is no middle ground – a reader will find this experience I describe as soulless and sad, or else a sexy, dark gem.  Which is accurate?  You decide.

It was the early 2000’s.  I was on gay.com when a guy messaged me.  He had one picture, just his flank showing off a cool tribal tattoo.  He said he was straight, and wanted to get blown, pure and simple.  But without a face pic, I declined and that was the end of that.  Fast forward a year later.  I get a message from the same guy, and he has the same picture.  But this time he asks to send me a face pic by email.  I give him my email and get a face pic in my inbox.  A blond stud in a ball cap, late twenties, kind of rough, a hard-working guy.  I say yes and he gives me his address, saying the door will be open.  He lives not far from me and I hopped in the cab to get there.

I buzz him and he buzzes me in without saying anything on the apartment intercom.  As is the norm for me with regard to a hook up, my heart is in my throat.  I know I will soon have a dick in my mouth, but will that dick be connected to a psycho?  How will it start?  Will he chicken out at the last minute, being, as he says, straight?  I approach the door, and can’t bring myself to knock.  I hear the TV on inside, and nothing else.  Crossing myself, I remember he said the door would be open.  This is even more terrifying, to simply open the door to a stranger’s home.  But I do.

I get inside and he is sitting, fully clothed on the couch watching the TV, on a low volume.  He is in that ball cap, a flannel shirt and jeans and he’s got a beer in his hand. I say hello and he barely seems to register my arrival in his home – he keeps looking at the TV.  I remove my boots and wander over to the couch, where, almost as an afterthought, he unzips and pulls out a tremendously beautiful cock and balls.  Needing no further instructions, I kneel in front of him and take his cock in my mouth.  The thing about it was that he smelled like – nothing at all.  Very clean, well trimmed.  I watch him alternately watch me and watch the TV.  Out of the corners of my eyes, I take in the apartment.  Somewhat messy, but with a great, tribal looking piece of artwork above the TV.  He takes repeated swigs from the can of beer, and proceeds to unbutton his shirt.  And I see the tattoo that I witnessed for the first time a year before on gay.com.  And me?  I’m in heaven, devouring his cock to the base, wanting to give him the time of his life.  Emboldened, I ask if he’d like to fuck my face, and without a word, he moves off the couch to let me lay on it.  He straddles my face and begins facefucking me, but I can tell that he doesn’t really want to do any work.  And he wants to watch the TV.  So we go back to him sitting on the couch and I kneeling between his legs.  Being so quiet, he also fails to tell me that he is going to cum.  In those days, I didn’t swallow, so at the first shot of cum in my mouth, I relax my mouth on his dick to let the cum dribble back down his cock.  My instincts tell me that he wanted me to swallow, but this is just the way I rolled back then.  Spent, he grabs some paper towel and wipes off his dick, still saying nothing.  And he keeps watching the TV.  He doesn’t say to leave, he doesn’t say to stay, just watches the TV.  There’s not much more to do now than to put my boots on and go, and as I grab the door handle, I turn back for one last glimpse of this silent guy.  He doesn’t look my way, still staring at the TV, so I quietly let myself out, relieved that I wasn’t hacked into pieces or sold into white slavery.

So what happened here?  I am not interested in reading my own essay.  I know what was going on in my head.  For me, this was a bizarre, illicit, on-the-down-low experience.  Whether he was straight or not, his claiming so was an aphrodisiac and a challenge.  His trust at letting a stranger into his space was wild to me, as wild as it was to open the door to a stranger’s home.  His crude level of social skills, I’m afraid to admit, lent him an air of mystery.  He seemed unattached from what was happening, and that mystified me.  So no, I’m not interested in reading my own essay.  What I want to read is his essay about the same experience.  His dick stayed uniformly hard the whole time, so on that level, he was aroused.  But if he was going to be that seemingly uninvolved in his own experience, why not just jerk off?  Could it be as simple as liking a mouth on his cock, and women proving too hard to get it from?  Could it be that he was gay, but disliked the idea of being gay so much that he nearly disassociated from the experience?  Finally, I wonder if I didn’t turn him on, in the end.  I messaged him once after to say thanks for letting me over, but he did not respond, nor do I recall seeing him online again.

I have trouble remembering what he looked like, but the memory of his tattoo is clear as if it was yesterday.  I wonder what that tattoo on his slim flank meant, just like I wonder what the meaning of the tribal artwork above his TV meant.  I wonder if it would provide a clue into the mind and heart of this man. The two of us, completely of different universes, met and had an extremely close physical moment.  But mentally, he was miles away.  I did not feel slighted by this, but rather intrigued, marvelling at the many ways people seek sexual release, for a myriad of reasons.  And like an anthropologist coming up short, I have no answers, just questions.

Hey Dude, Where's My Sex Drive?

The strangest thing happened to me this week – I rather lost my sex drive.  The idea of having a cock in my mouth is about as exciting to me as having one in my ear.  Now, I still masturbated.  It’s what I do.  But the frequency was less, the length of time it took was less, the pleasure was less.  Last night, in an attempt to get back into my usual sexual gear, I drank a ton of beer, but did not get drunk.  I watched a ton of porn, but didn’t get excited.  Dear reader, how lame is it that I have to tell you that I took a Viagra – just to masturbate alone.  I got off, but with a thud rather than a grand slam.

But desire doesn’t disappear entirely.  It’s a matter of transference, and I transferred my desire to something equally as addictive as sex – I turned to food.  I have just eaten a Big Mac, fries, and a junior McChicken from McDonald’s.  But a diet coke!   McDonald’s is my guilty pleasure and it was fucking delicious.  I orgasmed with every bite.  I brought it home so I could enjoy it like a pig in private (similar to my piggy conduct while masturbating).  I avoid McDonald’s at all costs, but tonight, I gave in.  It was the substitute for masturbating.

Where did my usually dependable sex drive go?  True, there are always worries swirling in my head – money trouble, conflict at the office, and so on – but that usually doesn’t get in the way.  Rather, masturbation or sex is the reward for making it through the day.  But this week, when I sat at my computer for my nightly, ritualistic jerk-off scene, I was listless.  And the porn seemed inordinately boring.  A cock goes in and out of a hole – big whoop.  Oh look, that dude in Minnesota can suck himself off – how nice for him.  Oh look, yet another gang bang.  Are there any cookies left?

However, I’ve gotten so much more accomplished this week, what with the extra time on my hands since my hands weren’t on my cock.  Even the fact that I am now writing rather than jerking off is a fine example of time well spent.  But if this lack of libido goes on for too long, this series of essays will come to an untimely end.  Will my libido come back?

Well, it’s gone and come back many times before.  There are times for even the horniest of us when we don’t want to be sexual, but to curl up in ugly pajamas in bed with a good book.  Or when illness, be it mental or physical, is knocking at the door, the libido takes a holiday.  And it can be freeing, not to be ruled by my dick’s every whim.  I can think about other things – world peace, getting my taxes prepared, trying a new recipe, searching for an old classmate on Facebook.   However, world peace is just too much for my pea-sized brain to comprehend, doing my taxes is as fun as having dental work, I hate cooking, and I could care less what my old classmates are up to.   Those alternatives just brought my sex drive back a nudge.

I think it might be a matter of my masturbatory routine getting a little....routine.  So I`ll shake it up a bit.  Maybe I’ll try dressing up, something I haven’t done in a while.  By this, I mean trying on my leather and my sexy underwear and parading myself in front of the mirror, doing a strip tease to Slayer playing on the computer.  But even that can turn on its self and feel ridiculous when your libido is low.  It becomes comical instead of hot.  So instead of forcing it, maybe I’ll just ride it out, put the ugly pajamas on and snuggle up with a good book – and a bowl of ice cream.

Masturbation

They say that for a drug addict, it's never as good as the first time.  Try being addicted to masturbation - it's always like the first time.

Everyone has a hobby.  I have a buddy, who, after a hard day of work, loves to come home to a bowl of popcorn and hours of taped TV shows.  Another friend takes her dog three times a week to the agility barn to watch Buster jump through hoops.  All very socially acceptable.  When I am asked what my hobbies are, it’s easy to spout out the usual – “I love to read!  I go to museums!  I play scrabble!”  But you, dear, lucky Reader, get to hear the truth.

I can out-masturbate anyone anytime anywhere.  I’ve got it down to an art, and Dear Reader, at present I’m finding that sex with another can’t compare.  My jack-off sessions are so fulfilling, that another person in the room would just be in my way.  And I need minimum three hours or else I won’t bother.  During sex with myself, I have no inhibitions, no qualms about what someone will think of me, I can be a total freak, I can be completely unselfconscious.  I can dance in the mirror for hours with my hands down my pants.  I can look in the mirror, one hand holding a Jack and Coke, the other a cigarette, and call myself a fuckin’ cum-lickin’ whore.  You know that pill bottle full of saved cum in the fridge?  Pour it on yourself.  Drink a glass of piss.  Sniff your pits. Spit on your chest.  Love the fact you’ve got a full bush when gay magazines say to trim it.  Be the cock of the block and do things you’re not sure you could really pull off with someone else watching.  Consume major amounts of porn.  All the while amazed at the gift that sexuality is.  There is a narcissistic element to this kind of self-love, but it makes up for all the times I doubted myself or felt inferior (or...does it stem from that?).  And it’s not a substitute for the “real thing”.  This is real. It always feels like the first time. It’s a date with myself, wherein I shower first, turn on the music, dim the lighting, set up any sex toys I might want to play with.  To me, it’s a valid as any other date I’ve ever been on.  Except I never get stood up this way.

Why can’t I just do this in private and shut up about it?  Why do I have to write about it for god’s sake? Why write this blog at all?  The answer is simple: Anger.  I’m angry that as a religious teenager, I used to masturbate for 10 minutes and then pray for forgiveness for half an hour afterwards.  The fear I had about sexuality in my youth was abominable.  Masturbation is not self-abuse, the needless guilt is.

I’m angry that some people would think a three-hour jack off is time wasted.  Is self-love a waste of time?  I think it beats Scrabble any day.

I’m angry that we all masturbate and can’t talk about it except through jokes.  But why must I share the dirty details?  Because we need to know that we’re not alone in our kinks.  Secrets lead to shame.  This blog is an attempt to shatter the hypocrisy around something that is a gift to be celebrated.  I’m also just plain curious – I like to know what gets other people off.  If it’s safe and sane and between consenting adults, how did it come to be that we can’t talk about it?  Why, after eating the apple in the garden of eden did Adam and Eve clothe themselves for shame?  I was not explicitly taught that masturbation was wrong, but as a teenager, I inferred it.  How did that happen, I wonder, just as I wonder where our fear of spiders, most of which are harmless, comes from?  And look at what repression does:  My adolescent guilt has spawned an adult that writes a sex blog.

But I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit that, after I cum, a touch of the old-brain guilt slips in.  And then I wonder if three hours jerking off isn’t excessive.  Am I addicted to jacking?  I’m a responsible person, working and caring for friends and family.  Can’t I have this without guilt?

Writing this blog entry is the last task of a long day for me.  It’s almost time to reward myself with my nightly jack-off ritual.  But a worrisome thought nags at me:  Why do I seem to believe that I can’t be as uninhibited sexually with another person as I am with myself?  What would it take to be that free with a man?  The joy with masturbating alone is that my happiness, fulfillment and self-esteem doesn’t depend on another.

After I post this, I will, in four hours, be a puddle of sweat, piss and cum.  What are YOU doing tonight?  Playing Scrabble?