Sunday, February 10, 2013


I'm not ashamed of what I am. Do you understand? It's important that I make myself clear on this. I'm not explaining myself so you can sit back in your cozy little life and judge me. Ok? You haven't walked in my shoes and all that bullshit. Have you? No, you haven't. And don't try to understand me either. You won't be able to. I doubt you've ever laid on your back and prayed for the sweet rush of nothing to sweep through you. So, just listen to what I have to say. And then when I'm all talked out, when I've poured out my heart, bled my secrets all over that nice shirt you're wearing, then look at me and accept me. That's all I need.

Because, you see, even a no good junkie like myself needs someone out there to accept that I exist.

I despise my skin. My body is not mine. I have it away years ago for a twenty minute fix. And it wasn't even all that great. Why did I keep doing it then, you ask. I dunno. Why does any addict go to that special drug over and over again even when its ruining their life? To escape. That's why. To leave behind that damn burden that's weighing them down. That sob story that God, in all His infinite fucking wisdom, has seen fit to saddle them with. And He decided to saddle me with a doozy. I gotta big whopper of a story.

So, what would you like to know first? Oh! What am I addicted to? That's easy to answer. Sex.

Yeah, I know. Women sex addicts are less common than men. I don't know why that is and I really don't give a rat's ass either.

There's nothing better than feeling a man's skin beneath my hands. The smells are incredible. Intoxicating really. I mean, I could go on and an on about how strong a man is. How safe it makes me feel when we his arms are around me. And how I can get lost in kissing. But the fact of the matter is is that during sex your brain starts releasing all these chemicals that just makes life all better. At least for a little while. And that's all any of us really want in life. Just for it to be a little bit better. Just a little bit.

For a little while anyways.

Now that's a question I can't answer. Seriously. I have no idea how many men I've had sex with. Nor do I care. One thirty minute mindless romp is just as bad as a hundred. See, you're judging me. I knew you were going to. Tell me, how much chocolate do you eat? How much coffee do you drink? How many bottles of wine did you buy last month? Better still, how many packs of cigarettes did you buy last week?

We all have our vices. Our little addictions that make us feel safe and secure in a world that vomits up all kinds of monsters everyday. Earth spins ever do dramatically. Forcing us to face up to the demons that smile so lovingly at us. It's all a lie though. Really. Those smiles that we seek out. The people that hold those smiles are not people at all. I used to think they were small devils waiting to disarm me. Patiently waiting for me to become defenseless. Helpless even. Wanting to hurt me. Now I'm not sure. I don't know what hides behind those smiles. But, I suspect, at times, that it's something evil. We all think that. All of us junkies. Doesn't matter what your drug is either.

Chocolate. Wine. Coffee. Nicotine. Crack. Heroin. Sex.

We're all junkies trying to escape a world we fear. We all carry around stories that we're too scared to tell.

I happened to turn to sex because I couldn't afford drugs. And I'm too chicken to become fat. Alcoholism, by the way, is too much of a cliche. Everybody is an alcoholic these days.

I've lost my train of thought. What was the question? Oh, right. How many men...

I really don't know. And I'm not saying that because I'm ashamed. I no longer recognize shame. I'm numb to that emotion. Shame implies regret. And a need to become better than what you are. I am neither regretful or in want of becoming better than what I am. That better person is someone I don't know. And I don't trust her.

So, believe me when I say I have no idea how many men or women I've had sex with. Yeah, I've been with women too. I'm not proud.

But, I'm not ashamed either.

What else do you want to know? The first time? I was thirteen. Yeah, I know. That's too damn young. But, there I was. Lying on my back looking up at some idiot and biting my lip through all the pain.

Trust me, getting your cherry popped at the young of an age is no picnic.

Oh, I don't know when I realized I had a serious problem. I can tell you I've never been faithful. Not once. I can also tell you that shit just didn't make sense to me. Not for a long time. I'd get bored easily. Bored with men is what I'm referring to. Routine sex just didn't do it for me. No, it had to be more. It had to hurt. It had to be rough. He had to be mean. It was the only way I could ever feel something else inside. Something other than what I was feeling.

But, even realizing what I was doing didn't force me to realize what I'd become. I didn't even know I had a problem. Even during the week I was out of work because the douchebag I was banging hurt me so bad.

Just for the record, walking around with a bruised diaphragm is no fun.

I can't pin point when I decided I needed help. It was when I lost my job because I got caught fucking that guy behind the dumpsters. And it wasn't even when I took that drunk guy home and blew him behind a barn. I almost gagged over the smell of horse shit.

I guess if I thought long and hard enough, I would say it could've been when I decided to try to be normal.

What's normal? Oh, that's an easy one.

Normal is not begging a guy you barely know for a chance to give him a blow job. Normal isn't telling some idiot from the bar that just because you did him the back seat doesn't make you his girlfriend. Normal isn't doing your bestfriend's husband simply because there's nothing good on TV.

And normal certainly isn't questioning if a man likes you simply because he wants to wait a little while before having sex.

Normal is a lot of things. But, it's definitely not me.

Yes, hon, I'm not ashamed.

Honestly, I don't know how old I was when I started trying to be normal. I was an adult. I had already become a mother. A wife. Looking back, it feels like I've always tried to be what I'm not.

Ya know, not a junkie.

My last fix? Um, I dunno. Six months, maybe? I was doing this guy and just stopped right the middle of it.


I climbed off of him, handed him his clothes, and told him to get the hell out. It's the in the same manner that the alcoholic walks away from the bottle.

Why? Oh, that's easy. I began to hate my skin. It started to crawl with him underneath me. I no longer found his smell to be intoxicating. I was repulsed by the sounds he made. The faces he put on. He had become comical.

No, darlin, that's not shame. No, I don't know what that was. I was trying to escape from myself. Instead of dealing with me. I can tell you there's a lot of anger in me. Anger that I've fed and nurtured for years. And before you ask me what I'm angry at, let me tell you that it's a long list. It's complicated.

Simplify it? Well, I can give it a shot.

I'm angry at Life. That's a little easier I guess. Simple maybe.

I'm angry at Life turning me into a victim.

Once upon a time I was helpless. I laid under the heap of shit that Life decided to throw at me. I was being crushed by circumstances. By people. By events beyond my control. And I've been trying to like hell to reclaim my spot on top ever since.

That struggle

           the fact that I even had to climb so far up

has left me angry.

No, not just angry. Pissed.

Sex quieted all that though. At least for a little bit. For however long the poor bastard I was with could last. Well, it did until a few months ago anyways.

No, it wasn't shame that pulled me off of him. I told you. I don't know what it was. All I know is that since then the anger has quieted. But, I still hate my skin.

And I'm awfully lonely now.

Why? That's another easy one. Our emotions are our companions. They are there even when no one else is. My anger had been lived along side of me for years. It's held my hand, propelled me in life, and hushed me when I needed it. And now that it's gone, what the hell do I do? I've taken sex out of the equation. What's left? Where do I turn?

I didn't get rid of the anger. I just converted it. See, emotions are energy. And we all know you can't destroy energy.

Oh, see, that's the kicker. I converted it into something. I'm just not sure what.

I've been trying to deal with being a sex addict for some time now. And the most difficult part of it is that no one can appreciate what I'm going through. Hell, even I can't half the time. I'm so busy trying to deal that I don't actually. Sounds weird, but it's true. It's still such a foreign concept to me. I can't quite comfortable roll the words 'sex addict' off my tongue.

It's as foreign to me as shame is.

Any other questions?

Plans for the future? I try not to make those. Plans mean you hope. And I don't do much of that these days. I try to take it day by day. But, that sometimes fails. So, I not I have small goals. Tiny ones. Like, I'm gonna make it til lunch. If I can get til noon without making it with some guy in a broom closet, then I'll tackle the afternoon.

And, if I fail, if I once again succumb to my body's need to touch other, then I will restart the clock. Say that I will take the next morning, the next hour if I must, to hold off this nasty addiction.

But, there's no shame here.

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