I am dying to suck cock.

…and I’ve always been this way.

First of all, I guess, apologies for the content of this post.  But if this blog is going to be an open and honest exploration and expression of myself–including my sexuality–I will hold nothing back.  I NEED to say these things.  Besides, this is why I requested that the WordPress mods mark this blog as “Mature”.

This mad desire to perform fellatio has always confused me, because I’m an otherwise fully straight male.  It started in my teens, and it’s been with me ever since.  I’ve often wondered if it’s “just a kink”, but I don’t think so: I’m genuinely ATTRACTED to penises, the same way I’m attracted to women’s legs or breasts or hair.  Cocks just wildly turn me on.  They’re beautiful.  They’re HOT.

I’m not the only straight guy like this, it seems.  A fair number of men are “into the dick but not the dude”, and are otherwise completely straight.  Gay hookup apps like Grindr and the back pages of any urban community events paper are replete with straight (often happily married) men looking to give quick, anonymous blowjobs.  (Something I’ve never done, btw.  But in my late teens and early twenties I used to breathlessly fantasize about–and was very tempted to actually do–getting in my car, driving along one of the rural highways near my home, finding some guy hitchhiking or otherwise near the road, and offering to suck him senseless.)

If you were to combine this desire with the fact that I love hard receptive anal play (God I love my prostate!!), you’d think I was gay.  And then on top of that, I’ve grown to love the taste and mouth feel of semen.  (My own, of course.)  So I think I’d be pretty good at blowing, and it might seem for all the world that I’m gay.  But no, I really am fiercely, distractedly, unambiguously attracted to women.  There’s no question of that.  It’s all very weird.  Maybe I’m legit bisexual.

Just chalk it up to the weirdness of human sexuality, I guess.  Some researchers (Ogi Ogas and Sai Gaddam) did write a book called A Billion Wicked Thoughts in which they explored this heterosexual male arousal towards penises, and they found it surprisingly universal.  Well, common, at least.

That’s reassuring in a way, in the sense that I fit into some sensible sexual category, even though that shouldn’t be necessary for my self-acceptance.

p.s.  AGAIN:  I’ve never actually given a blowjob.  I’m happily and faithfully married, so it has always been and always will be just a fantasy.

craving again

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I’ve been clean off benzos and opioids for more than 6 years.

Until last spring, in fact–for almost 5 years exactly–that sobriety was easy…almost ecstatically easy.  Victorious and energetic.

Then something unknown happened last March that just devastated me and made me lose all that sense of independence and hope.  I still don’t know what it was.  Maybe it was turning 40 the summer before, and suddenly hitting some sort of midlife crisis, or something.  Or maybe it was just the end of a very long, 5-year rebound “honeymoon period” of feeling great without drugs.  Or maybe–and this is probably the case, if I had to put money on it–I just hit a big depressive trough.

One way or another, my desire to get high again has been steadily and strongly increasing.  I know what a bullshit hopeless life being a user is, and what a miserably false promise the drugs offer, but for those short hours…  For those short few hours when they’re in effect…  Oh, holy shit…
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One of the things that I used to tell myself in recovery that I found most helpful was the mantra, “…And then what?”  Meaning, you get high, it wears off, and then what?  What happens then?  You have to get high again to keep feeling good.  And soon you’re addicted and in the nightmarish high-withdrawal-high-withdrawal roller coaster ride. And everything else in your life suffers, no matter how precious.  And here’s the other mantra: There will never be enough drugs in the world.  Never.  Even if you were alone on a desert island, by yourself, and a shipping vessel full of millions of Vikes and Percs and Xannies ran aground, it wouldn’t be enough.  Because you’d kill yourself on them without ever feeling fully satisfied.

Those mantras–“…And then what?” and “There will never be enough drugs in the world”–are helpful to refocus me and help me remember the value in fighting.  They really are.  But I’m tired.  Over the past 14 months, I haven’t exercised worth a damn more than a handful of times.  I’m lazy and exhausted and unproductive at home.  I’ve sobbed and sobbed and SOBBED more times than I can count.  (“Crying spells” are what my therapist somewhat euphemistically calls them.)  I ruminate on suicide, even working out plan specifics in my head when I can’t sleep at night and the anxiety and pain gets to be too much.  I’ve spent spent so much time on porn–just as a way to up my dopamine pleasure release–that I’ve now found myself going to Sexaholics Anonymous meetings to try to deal with THAT addiction, too.  I’m dejected and humiliated.

And for fuck’s sake, it all finally got so bad I had to start this blog.  I want to be a good person again.  I want to be a happy person again, too.

I just want to get high.  But that runs counter to both of those goals.

my dad died in December, and now my mom has cancer

A 6mm invasive carcinoma tumor in her right breast, to be exact.  She goes in for a lumpectomy in a couple of weeks.  Radiation treatment to follow thereafter.  She tells us the prognosis is very good because it was caught so early and the tumor is so small.  I dunno.  She always hides her health issues from us or downplays their severity.  I don’t have the time or money to travel 1,000 miles to go care for her, post-op.  The future is uncertain.

I’ve had it with testosterone

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I’m done with testosterone supplementation.  Just can’t deal with it.  I began it about 3 months ago to try to address long-standing depression and lethargy, and to that end it’s been rather successful.

Too successful, however.  The needle is now tipping over into mixed-state manic territory, including some emotionally self-destructive sexual impulses and behaviors.

All this on top of how testosterone just makes me feel wrong.  It robs me of patience, tenderness, and a rather indescribable sense of “love” that stays in my chest, despite the anxiety and anger and fear and insomnia and self-doubt and depression.

 

to all porn performers, I’m sorry

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Let me begin by saying that I’m not here to judge anyone’s choices to view or purchase pornography. What follows are my viewpoints on my own behavior alone, and I do not extend them to anyone.

Thing is, I’ve had a mild porn addiction for about a decade now. (Is viewing 2 – 3x a week “mild”? I don’t know.)

But no matter how I try to rationalize it, no matter how normalized it becomes in society, in my heart, for me, I just know porn is wrong. Not in any religious “sinful” sense, but just in a way that sets off alarms in my own basic sense of human decency. And there are ethical problems within the industry, of course (which I won’t even go into at the moment) which make me very uncomfortable about watching porn.

Yet still I do it. It’s just so appealing at a physical level.

I’m especially sorry to all the women actors in porn. I’ve lusted after you and objectified you, and so many of you have been victimized in ways that so many of us will never know or understand. Yes yes, I know, there’s a long standing debate that rages over the sexual politics of pornography (“empowerment or objectification?”), and some might accuse me of “white knighting” or benevolent sexism, but the fact of the matter is, I know what’s right and wrong, and I know when I’m not viewing a woman in the appropriate context. I have a wife and a daughter, and I just can’t deal with the cognitive dissonance any longer of loving and respecting them while indulging the fantasy of a woman as a casual sex object. Some women porn performers might genuinely enjoy their work. If so, fantastic. More power to them. But for my part, I FEEL that I’ve done wrong by viewing it.

I don’t subscribe to r/nofap. I’m not a teetotaler about masturbation or erotica in general. That’s not what this is about. This is about me publicly declaring that I just don’t want this anymore, and to each and every performer in the industry–especially those who have been victimized in any way–I’m sorry. I’m sorry that men like me made it possible for the industry to exist in the first place. I should be better than this.

image credit: harrison.anthony25, flickr.com. (CC-BY SA 2.0)

a friend

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An old friend had me to her house yesterday and made me chai.  A friend.  I can’t even remember what YEAR it was that I had a social visit with someone who wasn’t family or from work.  My soul needed this more than I imagined.  When you’re early middle-aged and your time is consumed by work, family, suburban stupidity, and just surviving in the face of chronic mental illness, friends become a luxury that you just don’t have anymore.

image credit: Bobbi Newman, flickr.  (CC-BY-NC-SA 2.0)

so much heartbreak when my daughter was little

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There are those quiet, still moments when you stop moving, and your past burdens race to catch up to you.  And you have to bear them again.  Some of them are overwhelming.

When my daughter “C” was a toddler and later on well into her childhood, between about 2 and 8, I was heavily and mournfully addicted to prescription drugs.  Mostly functionally addicted, albeit, just barely enough to hold down my job at times, but still deeply dependent on both opioids and benzodiazepines.

I loved her so, so much.  I always have.  I tried to be a good father, and everyone says I’ve been a fantastic dad all her life: present, adoring, supportive, involved, all that.  But for those six years at least, I was also frequently zonked out of my fucking mind, and absolutely couldn’t stop.  I suppose you can be a good parent while high, but only by a combination of the degree of relative mental blitzing of the particular meds you’re on, your determination to be a good parent, and sheer goddamn luck.

I remember one afternoon after work I had picked C up from daycare.  M wasn’t going to be home until later.  Suddenly I woke up in bed with the phone ringing.  It was M.  “So where is C?” she asked.  I knew instantly from the tone of her voice that it wasn’t a question.  It was a challenge.  M had come home, found me stoned unconscious on the bed, and our toddler child awake somewhere in the house and completely unsupervised.  M had taken her and driven elsewhere, probably to her parents’ house.  I was instantly both sober and devastated.  Crushed by my own parental failure and moral culpability.

But it didn’t stop me.  The worst self-inflicted cut, with the blood reflected in the eyes of my precious daughter, was yet to come.

It was a few years later.  When, I don’t know, but C was still more or less an older toddler.  A young child.  Maybe 5 or 6, I guess.  I was in the habit of stealing M’s narcotic pain medication.  She kept it locked in a zipping travel pouch, but like all addicts desperate for a fix, I had figured out a way to get into it undetected.  One afternoon in the kitchen I was doing exactly that when C ambled in, gasped, and exclaimed, “But that’s MOMMY’S medicine!”  Of course she didn’t know anything about narcotics or addiction, just that I was doing something genuinely wrong.  Even little kids know that stealing isn’t OK, and she could tell that’s what I was doing.  And that’s when I did something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.

Upon hearing her exclaim “But that’s MOMMY’S medicine!” I quickly shot C an angry look and put my finger to my lips in the universal SHH! gesture.  M was in the next room and could have heard her, and I couldn’t risk my own kid getting me busted.  So I silenced her.  Forced her into complicity.  Took her tiny young moral conscience and strangled it.

I’ll never forget that, and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.

All addicts have different stories, different scars.  Mine are relatively tame.  I never killed anyone or prostituted myself.  But I lied, I stole, and worst of all, I endangered my daughter or betrayed her goodness.

So what I can remember of her young life, is soaked with that heartbreak.

Which sing the open truth of my heart