I've masturbated to some weird shit as
of late, have I told you people? And I mean some seriously out-there
kind of shit. Any sort of sexual deviant who has some perverse
fetish, I feel I must apologize to you. Because at this point, I
feel like that there's a good chance that I've probably been there.
I might be able to understand. I might be able to understand why
some people prefer 2D to 3D. I might be able to understand why
lamias and centaurs are a thing for some people. I might be able to
understand what makes a pedophile tick, regardless of how horrific it
is. I feel like I might be able to understand S and M a bit more.
Though I still don't understand why people are into scat or
vacuum-packing fetishes, you people are fucking weird. But I might
be able to sympathize. Because again, I've probably been there at
this point. There isn't a picture on the internet my one-eyed
monster hasn't looked at and there isn't an object in the house that
hasn't had some rope arched over it at some point. And in whatever
position imaginable, to boot. I can tell you that the onset of this
discussion began after I had the really bad idea of jerking off while
propping my back up against the wall upside down with my ass sticking
in the air, and it ended about as poorly as you'd expect it to. I
just sat there for a bit in that position in the dim afterglow.
Blood rushing to my head. Breathing heavily. Covered in my own
semen. Noticing I forgot to take my good work clothes off. “This
is no way to live” I muttered to myself. Then I got on my computer
at looked at illicit pornography of men and horses and the process of
degradation began anew without a fuck given in the world.
Man, all this masturbating feels like
a second goddamn job. Every morning and every night my little man
goes “HEY MOTHERFUCKER, WE HAVEN'T HAD SOME FUN YET, LET'S CHANGE
THAT” and I'm like “NO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD LEAVE ME ALONE” but
it won't. I just want to live a normal life and have normal
conversations with people, but the entire time I'm talking to a
customer at work about where to find the men's shoes the only thing
I'm thinking is “I wonder if she's shopping for her husband. I
wonder if his feet are small. You know what they say about big and
small feet. I might have a shot. I MIGHT HAVE A SHOT, THAT DUDE
MIGHT HAVE A TINY PECKER AND I CAN NAIL THIS WOMAN IF MY FEET ARE
BIGGER THAN HIS.” And she might not even be that attractive. I'm
just desperate. I don't know why, it's not like I truly know the
carnal joys of sex since I only had it once in High School and it was
FUCKING TERRIBLE. The only thing I recall was me being drunk and her
crying and me going “OH JESUS THERE'S BLOOD DID I STICK IT IN THE
WRONG HOLE OH GOD I'M GOING LIMP WHAT DO I DO FUCKING HELL” and
that's it. I've never had any particular inclination or positive
experience with sex, so why the obsession? I find it incredibly
peculiar that there are people like me out there who haven't had much
or any sex at all in their lives, yet are complete and utter slaves
to their throbbing libidos. This isn't just my attempting at
rationalizing my inability to get laid, so bear with me there's more
to this.
Hell, maybe it's more like a drug
addiction. I don't know what that's like, either. I binge-drank for
a while in my youth, but I quit that cold turkey. I took a lot of Vicodin just to keep the shakes and growing pains off, but again I
just ended up stopping that. Like any good drug addiction, there are
visible signs of an addict suffering from a relapse. Sweaty and
pale. His hands are no longer soft and delicate from excessive use
of lotion (which explains the compliments people give me). His pants
look like he's smuggling a ferret in them and he's twitching enough
to make you believe it. He has a borderline obsessive fascination
with household objects a normal person wouldn't consider would make
for good sexual stimulation, like the radiator or toaster. And like
every good drug addict, he'll go to more and more excessive lengths
to get his fix because normal shit just doesn't cut it anymore at some point.
It does nothing for him. He and his penis have to go on a fucking
jihad through the anus of the internet just to find an oasis of
sexual deviancy that will be enough to quench his thirst before he
meanders to the next watering hole. It never stops. He'll either
die before he makes it to the next stop or he'll eat his own dick to
survive and then he can wonder what the fuck he's doing in the desert
before going home and MAKING SOMETHING OF HIMSELF.
You may note the excessive use of the
masculine pronoun in this discussion. That is because this is only a
man's problem. What? It is, don't give me that bullshit. “Oh, I
think about sex a lot too” you women say. No, there's a fucking
difference. You women have wants. Men have needs. Women are
commuters through sexual perversion, men are hostages. I don't want
these thoughts, they're like the asshole children you get in the
divorce settlement that you know are lost causes but are stuck
raising them anyway as they slowly leech money, happiness, and hope
out of your body. It makes perfect sense, because there are a lot of
instances of sex or masturbation or sexual perversion where it's a
lot like a Las Vegas marriage after a night of binging. Then you
relapse into proper judgment and you tell yourself afterwards “Well,
it seemed like a good idea when I was horny” as the post-wank shame
starts to settle in and you frantically close all the incognito tabs
on your internet browser riddled with Thai prostitutes, bestiality
and vore while you just sit there. You sit there, and you think
about what you've done, and you think about how you'll never be able
to have a realistic, healthy, normal sexual relationship with another
person because they don't meet your ridiculous standards of having a
literal horse's ass while they perpetually lactate beer to compensate
for the fact that they probably look like some misbegotten Godless
heathen that reminds you of the evils in the world.
Honestly if I could, I would do away
with sex entirely in my life. Life would be so much more convenient
if I didn't have to have sex. It means that I wouldn't have to worry
about being in a committed relationship or that I would be pissing
away my hard-earned money on prostitutes. But I can't stop, regardless of what I do or what happens. I could cut off both of my arms and I
would find a way. And the fact that I can say that is horrifying. At this point the thought
of it repulses me because it's been tainted by so many extremities
and factors. It is an impure, horrific, disgusting experience.
Until I get a chance to do it again.
