Imagine what it's like

Imagine you’re falling.
Imagine you’re falling and you keep waiting.
Imagine waiting for that sudden stop, that jolt, that crushing slam into something solid that lets you know that you’ve finally hit bottom.
Imagine waiting for it and it never coming.
Imagine while you’re falling that all you can do is replay in your mind every cheap thing you’ve ever done.
Imagine with crystal clear precision the look in the eyes of every person you wronged when they found out the truth about you.
Imagine the hurt in their voices when they asked you, “why?”
Imagine falling, waiting to hit bottom and having all day, every day to be reminded what a piece of shit you are.
Imagine falling into silence and being able to hear your name being cursed from thousands of miles away.
Imagine destroying everything you touch.
Imagine continuing to fall and waiting, hoping that there’s an end to the fall.
The luxury in hitting bottom is that you finally know it can’t get worse from there.
Imagine that luxury never coming.
Imagine having to wonder if you can actually die simply from grief.
Imagine invisible hands squeezing your heart and crushing your chest.
Imagine sadness you can feel in your ribs.
Imagine watching your whole life from outside yourself, because actually being inside your own skin is too terrible to bear. Your own brain trying to save yourself from the misery of being you.
Imagine realizing that you’re the very thing you used to hold beneath contempt.
Imagine being paralyzed by your own memories and wanting to physically claw your own brain out of your skull every time one hits you out of nowhere.
Imagine having the hubris to actually entertain the notion you are superior to anyone.
Imagine falling and waiting to hit bottom and thinking that you’re hearing wind rushing past your ears and realizing that it’s actually you screaming.
Imagine hating everything about yourself and silently pitying those that think you’re worth more than a shit-stain on a restroom wall.
Imagine all of this without having the luxury of faith in anything to help assuage it all.
Imagine wishing you’d collapse in the middle of the sidewalk, turn into a puddle and trickle away.
Imagine wondering what anyone ever saw in you.
Imagine trying to fall faster just to find out where the bottom finally is.

I'll just let it speak for itself

My beef with 12-step

I didn't want to do a 12 Step Program.
I didn't have anything against it in theory...it just never seemed like it was for me.
All of that sharing and opening up...taking personal inventory and making amends..having to face all of those people you wronged and try to atone for your transgressions.
It seemed like more than I would be able to do...sitting around a circle drinking weak coffee and hoping that someone is going to share soon who has a story worse than yours so you can sleep at night knowing, "Well, at least I'm not as fucked-up as that guy."
Sitting around with guys who blow their whole paycheck at strip clubs, who can't pass by a computer terminal without cruising for porn, who compulsively answer personal ads, self-abuse themselves, serial cheaters, chronic masturbators.
People who can only get off if the risk factor is high enough, 'Sport-fuckers' and 'Thrill-seekers'.
Those who don't have the nerve to BASE jump, fuck strangers in public places.
All of that being vulnerable and honest didn't sit well with me.
Despite my habit of being 'intimate' much more often than I should have, with many more women that I should have, I have intimacy issues.
I know...you're shocked.
That's probably while I usually chose sex over intimacy in the first place. All of the fun w/none of the work. Not having to worry about the post-coital moment when there's nothing to say...not having worry about filling that silence with something, because, there wasn't anything to say...and wasn't interested in hearing it if there were.
I didn't say I didn't need something like 12-step...I just said I wasn't comfortable with it.
The final clue that I needed some kind of assistance was, when I found a group in the area, my first thought was, "Hey, wonder if it's a co-ed group?"
Sick.
I went, I shared, I read...I got my 1-day chip, put a dollar in the donation can and the whole ritual.
My problem came when I was reflecting on the meeting, later in the day.
For the uninitiated, the first three of the 12 steps require you to admit you have a problem, seek some kind of higher power to help restore you to sanity/sobriety and to turn your life and will over to God as you understand God.
Admitting a problem? Check.
Belief in something greater than myself that can help me be stable, sober and happy again? Well...not sure on that one, but I'll listen.
Turn my will and life over to God 'as I understand him'?
Hold the fucking phone.
I don't like the sound of turning my life over to anything or anyone...I kind of thought the whole point was to be self-reliant...to rise above the thing that had sapped your will and taken over your life...not to just switch the thing in control.
Add to that I'm supposed to acknolwedge this all-powerful being, creator of everything including me and my fucked-up, emotional void ridden brain and then turn around and surrender to him to fix me, when he was the one who broke me in the first place.
That's like paying the guy who totalled your car to repair it.
And, while allowing members to worship their God 'as they understand it' is a nice sentiment, but it gets thrown out the window when the meeting closes with a hand-in-hand circle and recitation of "The Lord's Prayer".
God as you understand God, as long as it's the Christian God.
Maybe it was just my well-worn cynicism, maybe I was desperate to find an excuse to not participate, but the whole experience left a bad taste in my mouth.
Add to that, the fact that God (however I understand him) and I aren't on speaking terms right now and the whole thing falls apart.
I know I'm ill...I know I need help, but there's got to be a way that's based in belief and trust of something tangible without starting off with a good helping of hypocrisy.

Letter to my son, age 3 yrs. 9 mo. (unsent)

Connor,
How are you? I know it's been a long time since we've talked or seen each other, and you probably don't understand why Daddy had to leave.
The truth is, it will probably be a long time until you do understand, but I'll try to explain as best as I can for now.
The first thing I want you to remember, is that no matter what anyone tells you, is that your Daddy loves you more than anything else in the world.
I remember dancing around the doctor's office when your Mommy and I first learned that you were going to come and join us.
I remember the first words I said when I laid eyes on you for the first time, "He's perfect."
I remember taking you to your very first trip to the doctor's office and how you made a mess and peed all over the place while I tried to get a fresh diaper on you before the doctor came in.
I remember holding you in my arms and rocking you to sleep outside of a Mexican restaurant in San Francisco singing 'Thunder Road' to you while the rest of the grown-ups finished their meals.
Don't worry, I had already finished and didn't mind at all.
I remember seeing you go back to preschool after having been out sick for a few days and your friend, Roger, running over to you and giving you a big hug when you walked in the door.
I was so proud that you were making friends.
I was so proud of you, period and I always will be.
Yesterday was the first Father's Day we've ever been apart and I spent the whole day missing you and wishing I could see you or hear you or hold you, even just for a minute.
Remember how bad you felt when we had to leave the 'ladybug house' behind before you were ready? And how you cried because you thought you weren't going to get to see them again?
Imagine that, only a lot, lot more and for all day, every day.
That's how much it hurts without you.
That hardest part is, it's my fault.
Daddy made a lot of mistakes and Daddy did a lot of bad things...but the one good thing that Daddy ever did in this world, was to bring you into it.
I hope someday you'll understand and I hope someday that I can explain everything to you and I hope that someday you won't hate me and will still want me in your life.
Until then, I want you do do some things for me.
I want you to listen to your Mommy...she's a good woman, with a good heart and she's the best Mommy in the whole world and she deserves to be happy and so do you.
I want you to laugh..a lot.
I want you to be a good friend at school...I want you to mind your teachers and to be a good student as well...ask questions and work hard.
I want you to be careful playing in the backyard of your new house...always wear your helmet when you're riding your bike.
I want you to still think about me and to try to not be sad...we'll see each other again someday.
I want you be a gentleman...and to know it's OK to cry.
I want you to be a good boy...the one good thing I ever did.
I love you,
Daddy

The Fear

One thing I've learned since admitting I'm an addict, is that it's all about The Fear.

At least for me.

What's The Fear?

I found out a few early mornings ago.

I was up to my usual nonsense..cruising personal ads and answering one that seemed interesting...or promising...or one that seemed like it would get me laid.

Anyways.

I answered it and I heard back right away, we sent a few emails back and forth and, as it turns out, the woman in question was doing some writing of her own and needed printer paper.

She suggested we meet up at a 24-hour store where she was going to buy her supplies...public, open, safe etc.

Now, I had seen a very vague picture of this woman...dressed for Halloween, tongue sticking out and, while it wasn't a very flattering image, I was hoping beyond hope that it was just a bad picture.

Hoping that this wasn't someone that I would sleep with just for the sake of sleeping with them.

Hoping that this wouldn't be someone I would be horrified and ashamed to be intimate with.

I got there and it was worse than I could have imagined.

Now, I don't proclaim to be uber-handsome or shallow or vain or completely self-absorbed (well, ok I'm pretty self-absorbed) but in order for me to be healthy, there has to be a threshold of attraction that I shouldn't be willing to go under...otherwise I'm screwing just for the sake of screwing...which is kind of the problem in the first place.

Now, I've slept with people I was not even attracted to on any level...I'm not saying they weren't attractive, just that I wasn't attracted.

But, I slept with them anyways.

Yes, I do hate myself that much.

This woman, however, I was repulsed by.

She looked like Paul Giamatti with 40 extra lbs and a pony tail. Beige teeth (the ones she still had, anyways), bad skin under a layer of grease, dark circles under her eyes the color of rotten oranges.

The worst part, though...was the smell.

This wasn't the light dustiness of an I-showered-at-8-am-and-didn't-shower-again-before-going-out-at-3-am odor...this was a deep, ground-in stank.

What made it even worse was that she was stoned, which isn't a problem in and of itself, but because she was high, she kept talking and talking and when she talked, she would gesticulate and wave her hands around, wafting this incredible funk directly at me while we were talking outside the store.

It stung, brought tears to my eyes, made me want to retch and forced me to turn away to try and retrieve a few gasps of clean air.

I don't go into this amount of detail to be cruel...I'm trying to make the point of just how unappealing I found this particular person.

Now, my fucked-up brain has moments of clarity...for instance, my rational 'sober' mind was very much like "Be pleasant, but excuse yourself and go home...soon."

The dark, needy, self-loathing, sick, twisted hateful, warped side of my brain...didn't want to get together with her either...but...the fear was there that I would

As much I was repulsed by this person...as much as I was almost to the point of being physically ill in her very presence...I was legitimately afraid that, if propositioned, if presented with the offer...that I'd take it.

And that scares the shit out of me.

That's the Fear.

That no matter what a bad idea it would be, no matter how much I know that I shouldn't, no matter how much I simply don't want to...I've got to live with the nagging fear that I might. Just because my brain and body have some unmet need, some void they're trying to fill...no matter what the cost.

My own brain working against me.

That's the Fear.

Thankfully, the offer never came...I'm sure she danced around the idea and was waiting for me to suggest something...the opening was there..thankfully I never took it..and neither did she.

I honestly don't know what I would have done.

That's The Fear.

How do you explain?

When I first arrived here, one of the first things I did was to look into some kind of support for my addiction.

Not an easy thing to do.

First, it's hard thing to admit that you're helpless about anything, but as hard as it is to admit to yourself what you are, it's harder to tell your family. I'm sure my family would have rather heard that I was hooked on alcohol, pills, gambling..something they could understand. Something that they'd dealt with before in their family experiences.

But, telling them that I was a sex addict...that was a whole different thing.

I might as well have run into the room and shouted "snowshoe!" with Gila monsters strapped to my feet.

It made no sense to them...it was only something they'd seen on 'Law and Order' it didn't happen to good, happy, normal real people.

It certainly didn't happen to their son.

They couldn't wrap their heads around it..it was too different, too weird, too dirty.

My mom tried to help, she gave me a list of crisis hot line numbers just in case I thought I was going crazy or wanting to kill myself.

Not the help I needed, but an attempt to help nonetheless.

I realized that explaining any of this to her was going to be a neat trick.

How do you explain to the woman who drove to little league practice and never missed a game that you cruised personal ads looking for anonymous hookups?

How do you explain to the person who tucked you in at night and painted a map of the solar system on your bedroom wall, because you were interested in astronomy that you're driven to distraction by these dark, scary impulses and needs that take up all the time in your day that you should be using to do other things?

How do you explain all the random encounters that you squeezed in between errands, putting yourself and your family in harm's way, in parked cars, at stranger's homes, at your home, with women who, otherwise, you would have had nothing to do with, all in the name of doing it 'one more time'?

How do you explain how you could justify and rationalize all of it?

How do to explain to anyone that once the thrill of the chase, the rush of the climax and the high of doing something "bad" are gone, you can't get away fast enough and you hate yourself and the entire world?

How do you explain how much you hate yourself when somehow they still don't?

God might forgive me, but they won't

On my way out here to South Carolina from Washington State, I heard a lot of talk about God and his plan for each of us and his seemingly limitless capacity for forgiveness, which apparently is one of the things that separates him from the rest of us petty, mean grudge-holding dust-eaters down here.

At times, when I was cruising through the country with no Mp3 player and nothing else to listen to except an audio copy of Spalding Gray's 'Monster in a Box' I resorted to the radio, more often then not just hitting the 'scan' button and waiting for something interesting to pop up.

There were moments, lots of them, where it sounded like the radio was speaking directly to me.

"There is nothing," the voice coming out of the speakers would tell me, "That you have done, that is so bad that God won't forgive you for."

I've never been particularly zealous about religion...I went to Methodist Sunday school and attended most Sundays when I was younger, but have usually kept my faith private and on my own terms.

This, however, was tempting.

I could just find a place, fall to my knees, clasp my hands together, weep (not required, but probably couldn't hurt), and beg for forgiveness and everything would be OK.

But, then I thought, that's too easy.

If I did that, I could just walk away, leave the shitstorm I'd left behind and go on about me merry way, whistling a hymn, without a care in the world because God said everything was all right.

His forgiveness wouldn't fix the mess I left behind.

My feeling better wouldn't earn my way back into my son's life.

That kind of forgiveness would serve no purpose than to assuage my guilt, but would do nothing else.

God might forgive me, but my family won't...nor should they.

It felt like the cop-out to end all cop-outs..."Hey sweetie, I know that I lied to you and to everyone we know and created a whole secret life full of random sex and cheap thrills behind your back and lied to your face about it and destroyed your heart and made it pretty impossible for you to trust another adult male again as long as you live and left you holding the bag with our son and created a huge emotional and financial burden and also left you with the task of explaining to everyone what happened and having to deal with the embarrassment and shame of having been a fool to believe and trust me and forcing you to cry yourself to sleep every night and explain to our son what happened to Daddy because he's too filled with shame guilt and remorse to contact anyone...but God says it's all OK, so no worries, right?"

I can't just have this burden removed like that...I can't just ask some invisible man who lives in the sky to make it all go away.

Keep your forgiveness...better, yet dole it out to someone who deserves it.

If I've got to walk around with this ache in my heart over what I've done instead, at least I can feel something.

Is there a point when it makes more sense to just give up?

I'm just asking.

I mean, after you've destroyed everything good in your life.

When you've squandered every opportunity.

When you've alienated all of your friends and everyone who made the mistake of giving a shit about you.

When every turn you've taken turns out to have been a wrong one.

When you keep failing again and again.

When you spend more time off the wagon then on it.

When you find yourself in a perpetual state of 'starting over'.

When you instinctively bite every helping hand.

When is it finally time to throw in the towel?

Everyone keeps saying the same tired bullshit like "Everything happens for a reason" and "God has a plan for you" blah, blah blah.

Well, I'm not asking for everything to be laid out in front of me like some big blueprint, but a hint about this grand plan or reason might be nice.

Or, what's even more horrifying is, what if the plan is for me to be a miserable piece of shit?

What if my purpose is to cause misery and pain and to die somewhere sad and lonely?

If that's the case...fuck you..I'm not playing.

Take your plans and take your reasons and shove them up your ass.

Your 'plans' and your 'reasons' no longer apply to me...count me out.

You might be able to fool everyone else into thinking that there's some invisible man who lives in the sky running the show, but not me...not any more.

Drop a fucking hint, pal...or I'm taking my bat and ball and going home.

And while I'm at it....

All of you well meaning folks who try to pat me on the head and tell me it's OK and try to rationalize what I did and justify my actions...knock it off!

When Karen first found out what I'd been up to for all those months, she confronted me while I was showering for work.

She was hurt, confused, angry, betrayed and destroyed.

She responded the way that I would hope and expect someone in her position would...she hit me.

Open hand slaps across the face and shoulders, anywhere she could reach, really.

The funny part was...during all of that...I just stood there and took it, silently begging her to hit harder.

I wanted her to ball up her fists and leave bruises, draw blood, crush bone...I wanted her to absolutely destroy me..leave me in a heap on the bathroom floor like a pile of ground meat.

I wanted her, someone, anyone to dole out some punishment, make me pay, hold me accountable.

I used to laugh about how I'd 'get away with everything', usually just after doing something despicable.

I guess now I was always hoping to get caught...maybe then I'd do something about it.

Even after everything I did to her, Karen did me one last favor before I left...she punished me.

So everyone else out there who tries their best to tell me otherwise...no one and nothing can ever excuse, explain or justify anything I did.

Disease might be a great reason, but it's a piss-poor excuse.

Who's an Addict?

I've done some looking around and see an attitude among folks that sex addicts are not 'real' addicts, whatever that means.

The usual argument goes something like 'Well, if you've never stolen your mother's television to get your fix, then you can't be addicted to (insert addiction here)'.

First off, I didn't realize that addicts needed to pass some kind of lame-ass litmus test in order to be accepted into the ranks of 'real' addicts and second, if that's the rubric that's going to be used for determining who 'get's' to be an addict then there are plenty of good people sick, dying and dead because of compulsions they couldn't control and demons they couldn't exorcise who never walked out of a loved one's home with expensive home electronics under their arms.

The argument is laughable and obviously made by people who have no idea what they're talking about.

So, because of the compulsions that drive me; sex instead of drugs or booze, and the fact that I never robbed audio/visual equipment, I don't get the 'luxury' of calling myself an addict. As if it's some sort of badge of honor or some sort of cool affectation for attention.

I have a better idea; instead of determining if my addiction would drive me to commit crimes to determine how much of an addict I am...why don't you ask some other folks.

Ask the family I destroyed through lies and betrayal.

Ask the woman whose heart I shattered.

Ask my three year old son who won't have his father in his life.

Ask the people who thought they knew me and who thought they could trust me.

Ask the women who I couldn't get away from fast enough once the sex was over, who must have felt like trash afterwards.

Ask everyone who didn't get the time and attention they should have been getting from me because I was too busy indulging every sick, self-absorbed, selfish fantasy and impulse.

Ask everyone I deceived.

Ask every woman that I will try to have a normal, healthy relationship with in the future.

Ask them and then get back to me on who's an addict.

Fuck you.

Sometimes I disgust even myself...

Well, I did it again.

Sitting here numb, actually amazed at the level of depravity I've sunk to.

The hookup I narrowly avoided last night (only because of a misunderstanding on my part..I was a ll set to drive over) became available today.

I pulled up to the proposed meeting place (late, of course) and saw Louise and immediately realized that I was sent (very) old photos and that she has not aged gracefully.

This would have stopped anybody else, but not our 'hero'.

Nope, I went in and we made polite, yet suggestive conversation, she invited me home for a good old fashioned suck and screw and I took her up on it.

Keep in mind I did all of this with someone that I did not find physically attractive.

What is it? Is it just because they say yes? Is it because none of us have any self-esteem? Is it some sense of misplaced obligation? Or is it as simple as I need my fix and and one fix is as good as any other?

It's times like this that I have to wonder if I'm doomed to never have a normal, healthy relationship.

If I had any shame left, I'd be wallowing in it right now.

Sleep's a Motherfucker

Dear Sleep,
Fuck you.
It's the cruelest fucking joke that I've got going right now in a litany of cruel fucking jokes.
I've been staying up later and later to hold it off, stave it off...I've stopped taking the melatonin that I was using to try and sleep before because while it may induce rest, it doesn't prevent me from dreaming and that's where the trouble starts.
It's not like I'm having nightmares...nightmares I can handle. I deserve to spend each resting moment of sleep tormented by visions of my flesh being torn open by rusty razors and my spleen nibbled on and pecked at by fire ants and dung beetles.
That would be fine.
I'm having the opposite problem in that, I'm having dreams that are warm and wonderful. Dreams where I get to hold my son again, feel his arms around my neck, feel myself stroke his hair while he's holding on so tight he could strangle me.
I dream that I get to hear him squeal 'Daddy!' when I pick him up from preschool and feel him run into my arms.
I dream that I hear his laughter and hear him say all of his little catch phrases like, "Maybe that's a good idea" or sing Flight of the Conchords' "Business Time" from the backseat of the car.
I dream all of these things and I'm happy for the first time in a long time. I dream all of these things and I forget what an absolute mess I've made of everything, how I destroyed my chance to be happy with my son and how I've denied myself all of those simple joys and I forget about all of the things in his life that I'm going to miss.
I wake up and see that I'm surrounded by the rubble of the world that I let crumble because I was too weak to control my own base and selfish instincts.
I wake up and wish I could just keep dreaming and be with my son and be happy again.
Fuck you sleep.

The first time I met Daria

I’m close now.

The spasms in my left leg have already started, making it bounce up and down like I’m back in seventh grade and in the middle of a test that I haven’t studied for.

Deep within the calf of my right leg, the muscle fibers begin to knot themselves around like a small monkey reached inside and grabbed a handful, made a fist and twisted.

I throw my head back and I try to flex my right foot and stretch out the cramp in my calf.

My foot inadvertently taps the brake pedal, making the car throw red light from the taillights onto the trees that are 20 or 30 feet behind us.

Another wave hits my body and my ass rises up out of the driver’s seat and then slams back down into it.

The brake lights keep flashing their Morse code message against the tree line.

Causing all of this commotion is Daria who, at the moment, has her head in my lap, my cock in her mouth and one of her hands cupped around my balls.

Her other hand is working me over in concert with her mouth, causing enough over stimulation that my brain actually switches off for a second to the most non-erotic images it can conjure up at a moment’s notice.

Usually it’s baseball or long division.

It’s the same concept as switching over to another television channel when something disturbing comes on the channel you were originally watching. This happens a lot when children or older relatives are in the room when some kind of lurid or violent content comes on. Whomever’s in charge of the remote control at the time is also tasked with switching over to the ‘safe’ channel when something inappropriate comes on and then switching back a few moments later.

Gunfire? Click. Rachael Ray.

Rape? Click. HGTV.

Beheadings? Click. A documentary about ice cream.

It doesn’t eliminate the experience. After all, anyone in the room who is beyond the age of reason knows what’s happening on the other channel, but if they don’t have to actually watch it, they can cope with it. And if they can cope with it, everyone else in the room is more comfortable and not embarrassed on their behalf.

It doesn’t eliminate the experience, it simply de-intensifies it to a point where you can handle it.

My brain does this to me as well when I try and masturbate in the shower or with any kind of lubrication. The sensations become too intense and my brain won’t let my hand to continue and to push myself through that wall on my own.

Blowjob? Click. Game 6 of the 1986 World Series.

I’m pounding on the steering wheel with one hand and my other hand is wrapped up in Daria’s soft, thick, henna-colored hair.

She obviously knows what she’s doing but is very open to suggestion and guidance.

With a fistful of her hair, I set the tempo and the whole encounter becomes less about her performing fellatio on me than me jacking myself off with her head.

She’s not giving head…I’m taking it.

I start to speed things up because time is an issue. Daria is on her lunch break and I have to pick my son up from preschool in a little less than an hour.

I start to give her some encouragement: ‘Good girl…that’s it’, and ask her questions like, ‘You are a nasty fucking girl, aren’t you?’

Things like that sound so ridiculous and stupid that the only place they make any sense is while getting blown in the front seat of a car in the parking lot of a small scenic viewpoint.

These things get said to break up the silence, to make it sound more like a cheap porno flick so it doesn’t get confusing for anyone. The more stupid, hollow and vile it is, the less likely that anyone’s going to get the idea that we like each other; that we’re involved in any kind of relationship here.

Intimacy? Click. Fucking.

These things get said because a response might be just the trigger I need to hit that plateau. That split second when the tiny itch that began in the middle of the shaft has spread throughout my body and it becomes sensation layered on sensation until the instant before release comes and it’s the peak I’ve been pushing for.

It’s too late to turn back and it feels as good as anything is ever going to.

It’s as close to a perfect moment as I can ever hope for. It’s a singularity of thought, body and action. For that one pinpoint of an instant there is absolutely nothing else.

It’s as close to a perfect moment as I’m going to get and I’m almost to it, courtesy of Daria.

Daria, who I met in person for the first time 27 minutes ago.

Twenty seven minutes and she’s already risking arrest, fines, disease, embarrassment and divorce with me in a parking lot.

Twenty seven minutes and she already seems to know which buttons of mine to push and which triggers to pull.

Telling me that having another woman’s man’s cock in her hands and mouth gets her off harder.

“Single men are no good,” she tells me. “they get attached, they have nothing to lose.”

Twenty seven minutes and she’s already told me she does things like this because they’re wrong, because it’s bad. She wants to wallow in it.

Twenty seven minutes and she’s already told me about the 9-inch cock she had in her mouth yesterday and about they guy she’s going to fuck on her way home from work this afternoon.

Twenty seven minutes and she’s already cooed into my ear, “I’m a good little whore,” and the three sexiest words a woman can ever say to a man.

“I won’t tell.”

She tells me these things and I wonder if I’ve got some kind of turn-on checklist strapped to my back and she’s going through it item by item.

She tells me these things and I feel as helpless to my base and selfish instincts as a diabetic junkie in a room full of morphine-infused ice cream.

She tells me these things and it’s as if a series of switches up and down my spine flips from red to green.

Twenty seven minutes and the muscles around my anus and prostate begin to contract. The unscratchable itch had flooded throughout my body. My pituitary gland has started pumping out endorphins and from what feels like somewhere deep inside my hips, blast after blast of semen from my prostate, seminal vesicles and Cowper’s glands blasts into Daria’s throat.

My ass rises out of the seat again, so much so this time that I’m practically standing up inside the car and I let out a yelp with every contraction and with every thrust of Daria’s mouth.

For a moment, I remember learning in anatomy class that Cowper actually plagiarized someone else’s study and took the credit for describing the glands and getting them named after him.

Theft? Click. Random anatomical trivia.

I let her head go and settle back down into the seat. She holds me gently in her mouth as I slowly deflate and she collects and swallows every last drop.

Suddenly, after being so talkative before, I can’t think of anything to say.

Suddenly, after not being able to get her alone in a quiet spot fast enough, I can’t wait to be anywhere but here and far away from her.

She pulls herself back up into her seat and starts reapplying her lipstick using her reflection in the visor mirror as a guide.

She pats me on the leg.

“Button up,” she says. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

A word about the title....

The title, "One of the Jugglers", came out of a conversation I had with my cousin during my journey from Washington state to South Carolina.
I had just been asked to leave the home I shared with my girlfriend/partner and our three-year-old son after my addiction and affairs became, quite accidentally, public.
With the car packed with the clothes and possessions I had, I was on my way to visit my mother and step-dad hoping to have some time to get back on my feet and get clean and earn my way back into my son's life.
Reconciling with Karen was out of the question and rightfully so...she deserves better.
During the 2300 mile drive, my cousin had caught wind of my situation and called me asking what had happened.
A side-effect of my addiction becoming public was a new found sense of openness where there hadn't been one before. I don't claim to have become completely forthcoming overnight, but certainly more than I had been during the last few years.
I told her very frankly that an email of mine had been found which led to other emails and saved photos and a litany of information and material that made it very clear to Karen that I had not only been completely unfaithful and a liar and not at all the person I had led her to believe I was during the course of our six year relationship, but that I might be a complete deviant.
I told her some of the basic details, including the fact I had been cruising Craigslist and adult dating sites looking for thrills and hookups.
I had told her that it started off as voyeurism and curiosity but the metaphor occurred to me during the trip while I had a lot of time to think about the situation I had created.
"The difference between being a voyeur and a participant is the difference between buying a ticket to the circus and being one of the jugglers," I told her.
I explained that when you're buying a ticket, the circus is all show and spectacle...it's fascinating because it's different and unusual. It's being exposed to things that aren't in your every day life that make it special and unique.
When you're one of the jugglers, it's normalized. You're surrounded by people for whom it's normal as well. When you're one of the jugglers, the bearded lady isn't some freak to look at with curiosity, wonder and fear...she's just Betty...she works here.
So, without realizing it had gone from buying my ticket to becoming part of the circus, and it didn't seem strange because I had surrounded myself with people for whom casual sex, threesomes, role playing, BDSM, and any other manner of activities that used to be the stuff of my frustration-borne fantasies were part of their every day lives.
The 'circus' seemed to hold a lot more appeal than the staid, suburban lifestyle that I was becoming a part of.
It would cost me my jobs, home, family, self-respect and untold amounts of emotional damage doled out to those who had the bad luck to care about me before I realized I would give anything to have that life back.
This blog is not an indictment of the 'alternative' lifestyle. For those who can incorporate the new and the different and the libidinous into their lives and relationships and still maintain control, I salute you. For me it became such a distraction and waste of hours and hours of time when I should have been doing other things that it would be laughable if it weren't so sick.