Gallery Carre
On My Way to Sex Rehab
Aug 2nd, 2006 by Holiday
When I was younger, I was evidently my wife’s idea of a character. She was amused, sometimes even aroused, by my Curriculum Vitae of debauchery.
My wife knew I couldn’t recall the name of every female I had fucked starting when I was sixteen. It’s not that these young women were really cum-gargling-nymphs. Most were born to fuck, showed no jealousy, and were constantly cheerful. Some of my girlfriends even had principles; at least that’s what they said before I slipped my hard cock inside them.
A faulty memory was entirely my problem. In my 20s, I wanted sex more than anything, but I was usually fucked up on a six-pack of cheapjack beer, marked down Mexican leaf, or the dubious blotter of orange sunshine – often all three at once..
My wife also knew it had been my habit to cruise the gay bathhouses for any male who performed a French job.
Female … male, what did it matter? I could easily have said:
“I cuss like a sailor, and drink like a Mick
My only words of wisdom are just suck my dick.”
Often women, like my wife, are attracted to bad boys – at least for a brief period. Then, forget it; time to make yourself indistinguishable from the crowd … time to get a regular job and walk around like a docile maniac nibbling at the empty bait.
Of course, it’s fine to dream, as long as you dream like everyone else. Yet if you dream something different in America, you may as well start for Cape Horn to cowboy the great white whale.
“Peace, thou crazy loon. Away from the quarter‑deck.”
For years, my mother-in-law stood in the background crooning over my voodoo doll, with a trigger-finger on her favorite Frank Sinatra album, taking the Cole Porter lyrics out of context, to warn her daughter:
“Don’t you know, little fool, you never can win? Use your mentality, wake up to reality.”
To my wife’s family, I may as well have dressed in a clown suit and crashed my head against a stonewall until my brains looked like an omelette. Everyone thought I was a horse that wasn’t going to finish the race.
I tried to play that genteel Rotary Club game, with the ghastly connotation of middle-class phony elegance. I tried, but it was a sorry-shit act.
After two solid decades of monogamy and mortgages, my eyes had gone vacant like a man sealed alive in a coffin.
How could I preserve a modicum of intelligence and character under such a masquerade? I was just a ventriloquist’s dummy speaking with a strangled tongue.
Finally, I decided to create a blog as a telegram to the outside world from the heavy, sucking emptiness of a static tornado.
Yet these days, blogs are as common as cowshit in Calcutta.
Dispatches are filed constantly by chronic masturbators, cybersex hounds, spouses defeated by monogamy, purveyors of gossip and rumor, lunatics and religious sons of bitches.