True Love Waits?

Before the age of twelve I was already sticking my small penis inside various objects with holes in them. Toilet paper rolls, hoses, wine bottles, ketchup bottles and the onion bagels my mother would bring home every Sunday morning. I fashioned my own holes out of hamburger meat from the freezer, potatoes and the watermelons that my father grew in our backyard. By the age of fifteen I was a fiend who utilized everything that I could get my hands on for sexual gratification. I gave myself blow jobs with my sisters hair dryer. I stole my mothers diaphragm and stuck it up my rear end. I masturbated habitually to my fathers pornography magazines and I wondered when the time would come that I would have the opportunity to act out my fantasies on a member of the opposite sex.


When I was sixteen I tried to sneak into strip clubs with a fake ID but was rejected every time. I tried to convince a prostitute to let me stick my penis in her for fifteen dollars but she refused because she did not want to live with the guilt that she had corrupted a minor. I continued to have sex with holes and even found a way to place my penis inside of my bathroom sink drain. Desperation is the mother of all ingenuity.


When I was seventeen I had a babysitter who dressed me up like Tarzan. She stripped me down naked and tied one of my fathers belts around my waist. She then covered my crotch with a small kitchen cloth and my butt was covered with one of my fathers dress socks- both hanging from the belt. I wore my mothers tennis head band over my long hair and put my sisters red lipstick on. She would then chase me all over the house until she would tackle me on the ground and order me to “scream like the little jungle pervert you are” over and over as she tickled me relentlessly. Sometimes the cloth that covered my crotch would come off and reveal the erection that I would get when she was sitting on top of me. Her only response to this natural human phenomena was “look.. little Tarzan’s pee pee wants to say hi.” I was humiliated and immediately covered myself back up. She was never sexual with me but was rather what I would call a tease. After we were finished with our games I would sit outside on the front door steps with her and watch her smoke and blow smoke rings with big holes. I always fantasized about sticking my penis inside one of those hole but I never was able to ask her if I could.


It was not until I was eighteen that I was finally able to stick my penis inside a member of the opposite sex. I remember my mother lecturing me upon the virtues of waiting for true love until I gave away my virginity. In fact a lot of people that I knew at that time were talking about waiting until they found true love, the person that they were going to marry before they had sex. I never judged them for this decision that they seemed committed to upholding but for me the idea was insane. I was not concerned about true love, nor did I care about giving away my virginity. I wanted to fuck and if I did not do so soon I was going to be a danger to myself, my family and society. I had already started contemplating ways to stick my penis inside the beautiful white horse that lived down the street from my house. I contemplated having sex with cats and cows. When I orgasmed my semen shot ten feet into the distance because of all the pent up pressure. No, I was not concerned with true love, I needed to get laid. Like I said to my mother on my way out the front door the night that I would have sex for the first time….”mom, true love can wait.”

The Man With A Moving Nipple

I know this may seem strange but I am suffering from a moving nipple. It is my left nipple and it gesticulates and twitches like a firecracker. At the moment, the uncomfortable movements of my nipple have become chronic with little intermission in-between. This discomfort has become a part of my life, another bewildering ailment that I must learn to live with.

My nipple began to move after I was in a very upsetting argument with my father. He was in a hospital bed recovering from a surgery and we managed to fight with one another about what, I cannot remember. Consumed with guilt for upsetting my father during his darkest of hours- I left the hospital in a terrible state of mind. The stress was causing my chest to constrict and I remember having difficulty breathing. It was when I turned on my car engine that I noticed my left nipple beginning to twitch. I placed my right palm upon it, as if I was trying to comfort my broken heart. I drove off into the night trying not to think about my moving nipple. Little did I know then that this was the beginning of what would become a full-blown dis- ease.

As the days passed my nipple picked up speed. The twitches would come in unpredictable spurts and I was often forced to have to sit down and try and relax when the episodes would begin. The twitches turned into strange gesticulations that would wake me up at night and force me to place an ice pack on my chest. The moments that my nipple would not be moving became like tropical vacations for my weary mind, which was being over worked by the torment of my moving nipple. The sensations were like aggravating tickles combined with what felt like pinpricks that seemed to leave me feeling like I was a man being slowly crucified from the inside out.

As the weeks passed my moving nipple became more chronic. It rested little and began to control my every waking hour. I had read some where in Greek mythology of a character that had suffered from a very similar ailment as I was. His moving nipple became so violent that it slowly began to make its way onto his forehead and announce all of his private thoughts to whomever was around. Not only did this character suffer the humiliation of having a talking nipple on the center of his forehead but also he was unable to think without the nipple revealing his every thought! Of course it is not difficult to understand why this character took his life by forcing his lover to cut off his head. Once he was decapitated the nipple did not stop talking for over an hour- it told his lover of all his previous affairs!! Ever since I have read this tale I have been terribly worried that my chronic gesticulating nipple is going to break free from its root and make its way onto my forehead!! If the world were able to hear my every thought I would certainly loose everything that I love!!!

Last week I visited a Doctor who knew not what to make of my condition. He told me that he had never seen anything like this before. He recalled reading in a medical journal many month back about someone who had suffered from a similar ailment for most of his life- but he could not remember which medical journal it was in. The Doctor wanted to put me on some medication to see if he could relax the tissue but the side effects for the medication seemed to great to take the risk. My Doctors conclusion was that I was suffering from a stress-induced ailment that was causing calcium build up around the nerves of my nipple tissue-, which is putting pressure upon my nipple. The ensuing twitching and gesticulation is the result of this pressure. If it did not go away in a month he recommends surgery.

In the mean time I still have to live in this world. I have to make a living so that I can continue to have a roof over my head. As much as I want to hide away in my closet and write poetic lamentations all day- I cannot. I have a mouth to feed.

It is not difficult for you to see my ailment, or what I have come to call my crucifixion. There is what appears to be a constant vibration and rotation under my left shirt pocket. When people notice this they immediately ask me if I am okay. I tell them that I am fine, that what they are witnessing is an annoying muscle spasm. My high school students make fun of me and refer to me as a freak. They all want to touch my nipple and when I let them there are loud uproars of “EEEEEEWWWW,” or “That’s so disgusting!!!!” Whenever I go out into public people stare at my nipple as if they had never seen anything like this before. I feel like an aberration, like all eyes are condemning me to constant judgment. Now I know what it must feel like to be a big-breasted woman.

The only thing that I can do is learn to live with my ailment. Every night before bed I put a chamomile cream upon my nipple, which seems to relax it a bit. I also wrap my chest in a towel before bed, which seems to reduce the annoying vibrations of my moving nipple, allowing me to get some sleep. There is nothing that I can really do (besides having my nipple surgically removed) other than accept my current situation. I see this condition as an opportunity for me to deal with the various causes in my life rather than the effects. If I can learn to change the stressors that have caused my moving nipple than maybe over time my nipple will stop moving. I believe it was Pascal, Socrates or Emerson or maybe Nietzsche- who said that an unexamined life is a life not worth living, so I am examining my self- trying to understand the various ways that I have caused my own dis-ease. Maybe, through this process of self-examination, I will eventually become the only man who can set myself free.

“Beat It”

“Do you like to sing in the shower?” one of my students asked me in the middle of class. It was an innocent question and little did I know that my reply might cost me my job. The class was being observed by three education bureaucrats, who sat in the corner of the classroom with laptops on their legs, into which they took notes about my class and my teaching abilities. The school I work at is trying to receive more funding from the state so the bureaucrats came to evaluate the school and see if it was worthy of extra funding.

“Of course I do,” I said. “What song?” she asked. “Beat It,” I innocently replied with out thinking first how my response would be interpreted. It was an honest reply after all- I have been singing “Beat It” in the shower for most of my adult life. I did not realize that I may have made a fatal mistake until I noticed the hanging jaws and the looks of dismay on all three of the state bureaucrat’s faces. They looked like three people who had just seen a ghost.

“The song by Micheal Jackson, you know beat it, beat it…no one wants to be defeated,” I sang as the class laughed and made all kinds of comments like “I’ll bet you beat it it in the shower” and “do you have a thriller after you beat it?” Trying to silence the class while digging myself out of the hole that I had unintentionally dug for myself I continued to explain that it gave me great pleasure to sing Micheal Jackson songs in the shower. ”They are just songs!!!” I said trying to imply that the thought of masturbation in the shower never occurred to me. One of my students, of course had to shout out- “I’ll bet it brings you great pleasure…… Teacher.”

For the rest of the class period I was terribly uncomfortable. The three bureaucrats in the corner did not look at me once and seemed to be no longer writing things in their laptop computers. I tried every which I knew how to prove that I was an exemplary Teacher- rather than some perverted pedophile- but I am afraid that the hole was to deep to dig my way out of. Students continued to heckle me about beating it in the shower while I lectured about the bad luck that seemed to bring about Romeo and Juliet’s death. Little did I know that I was also talking about the bad luck which might just cost me my job.

After school I was called into the Principle’s office where he sat me down with an abrupt and angry gesture of his hand. Immediately he looked into my eyes and said, “the state administrators told me about the sexually suggestive remark you made in class today and the ensuing inappropriate remarks that your comments provoked in the students. The administrators are very concerned about the level of Teachers that I hire at this school because of your suggestive comment. Now we may not receive the money that we need from the state unless you are willing to be subjected to investigation by the state to guarantee that you are suitable to be teaching our children.” I tried to explain to him that Micheal Jackson was one of my favorite performers and that I really did sing Micheal Jackson songs in the shower. I tried to tell him that my reply had nothing to do with masturbation- which was the farthest thing from my mind. He replied, “as a Teacher I expect you to be able to draw the boundaries between appropriate things to say and inappropriate things to say. You are a role model for the students and I trust that you have the skill to think before you speak.” I wanted to say that we should be able to be open and honest about everything rather than walking around on egg shells and deciding what is appropriate or inappropriate for others- instead I put my head down and apologized for my lack of tact.

While walking to my car I could hear students singing “beat it, just beat it,” while they made suggestive sexual motions with their bodies. One of my students yelled at me, “hey Teacher don’t beat it in the shower too much- you might grow hair on your palms.” And then there was a loud sound of group laughter. I got into my car and wanted to get away from the school as soon as possible. In my head were the final words of the principle who said, “Myself and the board of directors are going to re-evaluate whether or not you are going to be kept on as a Teacher or given a suspension until the investigation. I know that you are a good man but I question your ability to be a role model.” As I left the school property and turned onto the main road heading in the direction of my house- I started to cry. “Why was I always the one???” I repeated over and over as if I was seeking an answer from the universe. Then to calm my nerves I turned on the radio, which ironically enough was playing a cover version of Micheal Jackson’s “Beat It.” It was being performed by a high school choir from Nebraska.

Push Cart Sallie

image_035-192x143.jpg I find women who are pulling shopping carts filled with empty bottles and cans to be highly attractive. I do not know from where this sexual excitation arises, but it may have something to do with my first experience with a prostitute. Her name was Push Cart Sallie and I met her while walking down a back alley in San Fransisco. She asked me if I had a cigarette or weed and I could not deny her since she also showed me her large breast which was hanging out from a ripped and stained white stretch shirt. She did not seem to be a day over forty and her physique resembled that of a model who had fallen down deep into the suffocating realms of addiction. Utilizing all of my lung capacities to take a deep breath when she asked me a question that I was to young to deny, I handed her a smoke. Yes, I wanted a hand job for five minutes and five bucks. We disappeared between a dumpster that had a tribe of pigeons scavenging for food all around it. The sun radiated down upon my penis as she pulled on it with her hands that suffered tremors which are a direct consequence of forgotten dreams. My first orgasm with a prostitute was one in which I happily came all over a pigeon loitering upon my feet.

Ever since this encounter with Push Cart Sallie I have been unconsciously hoping to replicate my experience every time I see a women pulling a shopping cart filled with empty cans and bottles. I have reached a point that no matter what the appearance of the women may be, I find myself becoming sexually aroused just looking at the way her body pulls the cart behind her or pushes it forward. It is a symbiotic chemical reaction that takes place in my brain whenever I am confronted with a woman and a shopping cart. I do not know if it is a deep longing for my lost youth that I hope to regain through recreating my first experience with a prostitute or a disturbingly unacceptable sexual dysfunction that I am suffering from. Whatever the case may be, twenty years after my experience with Push Cart Sallie, I am still searching for her in back alleys all over the world.

The Impatient Taoist

 I have decided to sleep away the rest of the day. All morning I was searching for the way, the path, the Tao. I was told to look for it in sound, smell and touch. In all these things I came up empty.I grew frustrated. I wondered around thinking about non-being and effortlessness, but found myself having to make great effort to become nothing. All I wanted was to be done with time, to relinquish the jaws of time from the hold it has upon me. I wanted to surrender myself into the greater unifying principle of space and nothingness but I had chest pain and was worried about my bank account. If I could only be fully present in the moment, which at times I am, than maybe I would see the way, the path, the Tao more clearly. Maybe I would unlearn everything that I know and become the absence that Taoists refer to as enlightenment. Over and over I repeat passages:

Do not talk about right and wrong.

Everyone should sweep the snow from  his own door

And not be concerned about the frost on another’s roof.

Over and over I tell myself, “refine the self,” but then I find myself looking up the skirts of stray women and suffering the terrible fear of death. My mind drifts as vagrantly as a piece of tissue blown by the wind. I want to uncover or unravel deeper mysteries but I also can not stop thinking about my next meal or the desire to be rich and naked and stuck in blow job orgies sipping wine. The Tao does not come easily into my mind. “Be done with mind,” certain Taoists tell me but my mind keeps me in a state of anxiety and longing and without this discomfort how would I know I was me? So I am an impatient Taoist and all my wanting and waiting has made me tired to the point that I have decided to spend the rest of the day asleep in bed. We will talk more about this later.

The Sex Life Of A Man Without One #19

header.jpg lady.jpg I never imagined that a naked woman behind glass could be so gratifying and theraputic! How had I gone so long without considering this form of sexual interaction? Not only is it considerably cheaper to talk and mutually masturbate with a woman behind glass (than say go to a strip club or massage pallor), but it is a wonderfully safe form of sex. It is amazing that no one had told me about this. Like most interesting things that I have learned about in my life…I had to stumble upon this one on my own.

It was around 9 p.m when I finished writing my previous blog entry (Shakespeare and I). It was one of the better entries that I have written in some time and I felt the need to reward myself for my efforts. My home was lonely and cold, the wife was at work (she picked up a second job waiting tables at a very hip and formal restaurant in Downtown Oakland) and I was in need of entertainment. I took a quick shower and dressed in a black suit with white converse all star tennis shoes and decided to take a drive into San Fransisco- the city of the night. After a quick drive across the Bay Bridge I entered the womb of the city like a man with a great deal of anticipation in his heart. I parked my mumbling car on a small street where many lives were squished together in nineteenth century apartment buildings. I lit another cigarette and decided to walk, to see where my feet may take me.

bay-bridge-at-night-sm.jpg

I spent an hour or so shopping around in my favorite bookstore, City Lights Books. I read the first pages of dozens of novels by African, European and Latin American Authors. Nothing captured my attention. I decided to buy a book of poems by Jack Kerouac and then to go across the street and drink a beer in an Irish pub. The pub was once home to many Bohemians whose pictures still decorate the walls. I sat at the bar where I had once had a drink with Allen Ginsberg and order and stout. It was close to midnight as I drank black beer and waited for the poetry to fill my mind with a reverent awe.

images.jpg

I left the bar and walked down Broadway. I was a man alone with himself and happy to be filled with the sights and sounds of a city at night. I wondered into an establishment with a blinking neon sign that said Naked Girls Behind Glass– Come On In! Inside a few punk rockers greeted me from behind a counter. I wondered around dark hallways filled by glass windows covered by curtains. All kinds of men wondered the hallways searching for an open window. On the doors besides the windows were pictures of the women who sat on the other side of the curtain. I walked around in anticipation waiting to find an open window. I peed in a bathroom that smelled like urine and I watched a fifty cent porno film in a booth that was sticky with semen.

She knocked hard upon the glass and I could make out her lips saying “hey you, come here!” She seemed to be pointing at me so I followed her index finger and entered the closed door which she sat behind. Inside the cubicle was a black telephone. The room was dark and I could hear a voice shouting “pick up the phone.” I did so and was told to place a five dollar bill into the money slot. When I did this a curtain was pulled back and the room was illuminated with a red neon light. A young women dressed in revealing black and pink lingerie was spread out on a mattress that was covered in red silk sheets and surrounded by mirrors. She held the black phone in her hand and said “my name is Silver, what is yours?'” With the black phone up to my ear I scrambled to make up a name “Zoey,” I said. “Hi Zoey, Welcome to Silver’s Temple. Why don’t you whip out your cock and stick twenty dollars into the slot.”

I was slightly nervous. My conscience was playing in the back of my mind. “You degenerate sleaze ball,” it kept saying over and over. “You can’t take out your penis in a room that smells like cum and is filled with various forms of disease,” my conscience told me over and over, but there was a problem- Silver was hot. Her breasts and stomach were filled with a youthfulness that was yet to see the decline of the flesh. Her face looked like an image that could have created been created by Leonardo da Vinci. She had straight long hair and long silken legs with smooth manicured feet which pressed upon the glass window. When she turned over and showed me her sculpted behind with a small tattoo of a butterfly I immediately began to pull money from my wallet. “What would your wife think of you now,” a voice said into my left ear but I told it to be quiet and leave me be, as I stuck a twenty dollar bill into the money slot.

lexxxy175.jpg

Music began to play and Silver opened up her long legs revealing a treasure chest between. I stared without concern for the look on my face. “You look like you have never seen a pussy before,” she said. “It has been some time since I have seen one like yours,” I replied with a hint of anxiety in my voice. “Well then Zoey, come closer so you can see.” She took out what looked like a long plastic turkey baster, but was a dildo made out of rubber. She stuck it into that sacred spot that was making my heart rapidly beat. I felt the immediate power of the hole that brings forth life, with a reverence that made me want to fall to my knees. My nose pressed against the glass. I was staring directly into her majestic hole which she played with like a child. She made various sexual sounds and continued to ask me to take out my cock and cum with her. But I could not move. With my nose pressed against the glass all I wanted to do was climb into her vagina and return to the womb which I so fondly remember.

I had to hold back my tears. I understood now the reverence that a religious disciple feels for a sacred object. As Silver played with her dildo I slowly unzipped my zipper and let my pulsating penis leap out into the dank air. “Yes, please play with it for me,” Silver said as she watched me watching her. “Stroke it, stroke it,” she demanded. I felt a little uncomfortable about masturbating in front of the sacred object but the more she demanded that I cum the more I became intoxicated by her sirens call. Silver than sat up and brought her perfectly painted face up to the glass so that she could look directly at my cock. With the black phone in her hand she kept repeating “cum on my face…cum on my face dady,” and like all good disciples I eventually did what the idol demanded. I released my sperm onto a glass window.

“Wow!!” Silver said. “Seems like you have not had sex in a long time,” she commented in response to the large amount of semen that came forth from my penis. “It has been some time, yes,” I said recalling that it has been over a year since I had had sex with my wife, or any women for that matter. “Must be difficult being a married man without a sex life,” Silver said to me as she looked at the wedding ring upon my hand. “It is not so bad, I just can’t seem to figure out how to be intimate with a woman that I love,” I said as I pulled my limp penis back into my pants and zipped up my fly. “Yeah, that’s difficult for a lot of men. They seem to be only able to have good sex with women whom they hate,” Silver said as she turned back around onto her back. I was surprised by her statement but I understood what she may have meant. “Once a man loves a woman they get her confused with their mother and then sex goes out the window. It is all because men are afraid to love,” Silver said. “Maybe so,” I replied not really feeling honorable enough to voice a response. Here I was, with my cum splattered all over a glass window which separated me from the object of my desire. Maybe Silver was right, maybe I was afraid of love.

embarcadero_nite_s.jpg

“Have a nice evening and make sure you come back and see me soon,” Silver said as she shut the drape and turned off the light. I walked out of the establishment with my head down and a feeling like I had just done something that I was not allowed. Outside on the cold and quiet midnight streets I lit a cigarette and began to walk back to my car. Garbage men collected trash on both sides of the street and stray dogs wandered into dark corners searching for food. I looked up at the black sky and observed the sky scrappers which surrounded me on all sides. I am a man in love with the city at midnight. I was twenty five dollars poorer now, but for that price not only did I get to have a pleasant orgasm and watch a beautiful woman play with herself- but I also was able to learn a little something about myself.

Eletromagnetic Freak, Part 2.

     My mind is always creating assumptions, but are they true? I am perpetually surrounded and perturbed by a sea of electromagnetic radiation and I feel the effects of it upon my body, mind and spirit. These micro-waves are difficult to avoid when  one is surrounded by creations and emanations of a modern technological society. I do what I can to reduce the exposure to radiation, but my attempts are mostly futile. Day by day the physical symptoms that I experience mutate into a more advanced form and the more I talk about my physical symptoms being the result of  electromagnetic radiation, the more I wonder- is this assumption true?

If I discuss this subject with ordinary people they have a tendency to think I am either loosing my mind or suffering from a form of hypochondria. These judgments and accusations have caused me to questions my own inner truth. Often times I am told to “sit with my discomfort and be willing to be uncomfortable.” “All my life I have tried to avoid discomfort,” my mother said when I complained to her about my illness, “now you have an opportunity to be fully present and comfortable with your discomfort.” It is hard for me to understand how I can be present and comfortable with the zapping sensations that cause me palpitations, tremors, dizziness and nausea. When I am infected by these sensations I become fearful and worried. “Now you can learn to work with your fear,” my mother always responds. She has been taking a mindfulness meditation course once a week and I fear that her spiritual concepts and Buddhist rhetoric may be removing her from the reality in which I am stuck. I have decided to stop consulting with my mother for the time being.

I have also decided that I am suffering from a modern day ailment called EMRSD (Electromagnetic Radiation Sensitivity Disorder). This diagnoses is yet to exist in any medical reference books but I guarantee you that it will some day soon. People like myself are Pioneers, we are on the cutting edge of a whole new era in disease and syndromes. Symptoms and various forms of discomfort and disease that are a result of the growing use of wireless technology- are in the not to distant future going to be one of the main causes for seeking medical attention. We are currently lab rats, subjects in the laboratory which is our world. Subjects (or victims), like myself (and many others who have contacted me) are some of the first pioneers to experience the disturbing side effect of electromagnetic radiation (side effects include- zapping sensations in the brain, dizziness, nausea, palpitation and tachycardia upon falling asleep which causes one to be shocked awake, difficulty getting to sleep, vivid nightmares, hair loss and prolonged erections in men- just to name a few).

This morning while I was sitting in meditation I experienced the unpleasant zapping sensation and rapid heart beat. I cleared my studio of any devices that may be emitting electromagnetic radiation. I removed my cellular phone, laptop, digital clock, radio and cat. I sat in the lotus position and slowly fell off into a feeling of deep relaxation. Right as I reached a point of calm (a state which Buddhists call Samsara) I was zapped (shocked) back into my body with the feeling of a rapid heartbeat causing my mind to grow anxious. After I calmed myself down I tried again to continue my mediation but was again zapped back into reality. In an impulsive act of frustration I threw my meditation cushion out the window and screamed out “what the hell is going on!!!” This unpleasant zapping sensation while in meditation, has been happening to me through out the week. It is a newer symptom of the illness that I am convinced I am suffering from- EMRSD.

Sleeping with my windows open has brought me some relief at night but last evening the unexpected happened. I was awoken by what sounded like a sniffling beast smelling my feet. I was too afraid to open my eyes and lay there like a corpse trying to figure out what the cold and wet sensation was that repeatedly kept touching my bare feet. I new it was not my cat or wife, both of whom were asleep beside me. When I garnered up enough courage to open my eyes and see what it was, my reaction was a surprise to not only myself. I let out a terrible scream and jumped five feet into the air, causing my cat to fly off the bed in a panic and my wife to sit up screaming, “what!! what is it”. My body went into fight or flight mode and I ran for my life into the bathroom where I locked the door. My wife came running after me in a state of shock and concern pounding on the bathroom door telling me that “it is gone!!! it is gone!!! it ran out the window!!!” A raccoon had come in through the window I had left open and decided to scare the shit out of me, my wife and cat. Electromagnetic Radiation Sensitivity Disorder is making me feel “edgy” in more ways than one.

This incident does not diminish the fact that there has been some improvement in my condition. Sleeping with an open window has been helpful. My perpetual erection has gone down and I am currently not suffering from vivid dreams or rapid heartbeats before drifting off to sleep (knock on wood). Electromagnetic Radiation Sensitivity Disorder is a real ailment- one that I am sure thousands of people suffer from. I want to believe that my assumptions about my symptoms and their cause are true, but currently I am living in a world where profit and technological advancement seem to be more important than the health and well being of individuals. If we (consumers) found out that the technology we are dependent upon is slowly killing us or causing us various forms of dis-ease, then these large corporations would go broke or have to find healthier ways of creating products. Unfortunately, it will take decades before this is the case. By then it may be to late for many who suffer from EMRSD and diseases caused by the technology we all use. So it makes sense that information is being pushed under the carpet, supressed and then manipulated so that people such as myself who experience the negative effects of modern technology are caused to question their own assumptions and feel like sickly freaks. It is the nature of the business, a sign of the times.

Sex Life Of A Man Without One #18

0101050115040116062008022768007b157cfb3263d6005f52.jpg She called herself the “Divine Back Scratcher.” A whore with this kind of vernacular struck an immediate interest in me. Despite the fact that I had pledged to stay away from prostitutes for a time, the itch was returning. For a man this itch is the equivalent to a nuisance which never seems to go away. For a time there will be some quiet, a respite but like all biological imperatives- it returns with a vengeance. I have learned to accept this eternal return, with the calm acceptance of the Buddhist I feel I may be becoming. I realize that everything is as it should be in life. I try not to get in the way.

Once again I began my day by doing a little meditation and then immediately going on the internet to see who was on the Craig’s List Erotic Adds page. I searched trough numerous pictures with an erection that felt like kundalini rising in my lower spine. I was delighted by various adds that mentioned daily head specials or lunch time hand specials. The photographs were mostly unappealing but the few that struck some interest in my eyes were like shots of ecstasy to my brain. I had been too long without my girls.

I have been meaning to talk to my wife about my sexual expeditions and obsessions. My therapist decided that if I had not done it within the month that she was going to call my wife and tell her. I knew my therapist was only innocently threatening me with her pledge (since it violates patient privacy rights)- but now I fear that she may do it. So I have an allotted time left to indulge my fantasies before I have to face the music (which may turn out to be a rehabilitation center for sex addicts). This morning the sun was out, I had money in my bank account and could foresee no reason why (other than guilt and shame) I should not investigate my curiosity with regards to the Back Scratcher. Cumm Let me Scratch your back and make you purr, the add said and the photograph I could hardly resist.

She was only seeing clients at a hot tub establishment that was not far from my abode. I quickly dressed and decided not to put on underwear since I assumed I would be going into the tub nude. Over the phone she sounded rather unfriendly and belabored. I tried not to take this personally by telling myself that I was not trying to make friends. I just wanted an erotic hand job in a hot tub. My appointment was for 1:15 p.m and when I arrived at the establishment it seemed as if it could be closed. A homeless man stood outside and there were no cars upon the vacated industrial street. Other than a few famished alley cats and a sign that said Health Spa I seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

I rang the buzzer and was greeted by an older Asian man who had a cigar in his mouth. “You here for girl, yes?” I did not know how to answer. What if this was a sting, a trap to catch perverts like myself? This has been going on a lot lately. “You here for girl?” he said again with a frenetic energy that made me feel pressured. I threw caution to the wind and nodded yes. “You sit, she almost through with nother client.” I sat in a yellow chair that smelled like a thrift shop. I looked at desperate fish floating around in a neglected fish tank. One orange fish watched me watch it. I wondered if he understood. There was a picture of the Buddha on the wall and a few oranges and a banana were placed in front of the picture. Food for the Gods.

A very fat man walked down the hallway. His step was heavy enough to rattle the chair in which I sat. He was breathing hard and seemed to be perspiring a great deal. His face was beet red and when he said good bye to the Asain man, I thought I heard him say “what a back scratch!” I was nervous and hesitant when the Asain man said to me, “Okay you go,” and directed me to walk on down the hall to the open door with white light shining out of it. The hallway was dark and lined with straw mats that made me feel like I was visiting a whore house in a third world. If it was not for the smell of chlorine and tobacco, I would of thought I was walking away from the living and towards the light.

The room was dark, and I was greeted by a long legged women dressed in a black corsage. Her hair was long and ruffled and she seemed to be developing dark bags under her eyes. None the less I found her very attractive. She reminded me of a fallen angel. “Welcome,” she told me after she mentioned that I should get undressed and lie on my stomach on the mattress upon the floor. I noticed that in the room there was no hot tub. “Have you had your back scratched lately?” she asked me. “I have not,” I said like a shy school boy. “Well this one you will enjoy,” she said as she ran her long pink nails down the front of my bare chest while making a sexy sound. “Oh look,” she said surprised as I stood naked in front of her, “your cock is ready to go!” I looked down and noticed a pulsating erection hanging off my shaking groin. “This is what happens when I’m nervous,” I said.

I gave her the agreed upon sixty dollars and lied down on my stomach. The mattress smelled like a mixture of semen and perfume. I buried my face deep into the pillow and tried with all my might not to think about how I would tell my wife about this. She would never believe these degenerate journey’s I go out on. Her life is clean, composed, starched and blessed. This kind of experience is not upon her radar screen nor does she think it’s upon mine. While she is hard at work I am at home looking for work, is what she thinks. As I was thinking about what not to think about I felt the Back Scratcher sit upon my bare butt like she was straddling a horse. I took a deep breath as she gently began to run her nails down my spine. She made strange chanting sounds which had the effect of really turning me on. She then ran her nails over my head and into my ears. My anxiety fell away and turned into a relaxation I had never felt before. Even though I wanted to see her naked (and was willing to pay more) I was completely resigned to the moment. I surrendered and turned into a floating cloud. Her fingers ran up and down my spine and shoulders with a motion that felt like the wind. I was hypnotized by her scratches until she placed one of her hands upon my testicles.

I am easily surprised. I live my life trying to avoid surprises because it makes me feel like I have little control in my life ( I am having difficulty accepting the laws of chaos). When she placed her warm and tingling hand upon my testicles, I made what sounded like a pre-pubescent chirp. My body vibrated and she asked me if I was okay. I was more than fine I told her, “I had just had an orgasm.” She laughed and said, “you came already, I did not even do anything!!” “It takes so little,” I said. All she could do was laugh and ask me if I wanted a cookie.

Ever since I was a young man I have suffered from premature ejaculation. Many a women have left me because of it. I have done what I can to develop my locking abilities but the older I get the more I have just learned to live with my disability. I have read books, taken a seminar (“The Multi-Orgasmic Male”) and even saw a counselor for this ailment. To no avail. I have been told that the problem is the result of years spent frequently masturbating, neurological and genetic. I just think I am a very horny man who can not hold back all the intense pressure I keep blocked up during the course of a typical day. When I explained this to the Back Scratcher she told me she understood. “My last boyfriend was like this so I can relate,” she said. “He usually came before he even stuck it in.” This made me feel better, understood. Once I was fully dressed I told her that during the back scratch I had reached a state of relaxation I had never achieved before. “See….. whores are good for some things,” she said as she counted her money and then looked at the clock. I could not have agreed more.

Electromagnetic Freek (EMF).

I love my laptop but it is making me sick! It has turned into a constant struggle. Let me explain before you jump to judgment: I am immensely sensitive to EMF radiation from cell phones, laptops- all wireless technology. I have learned about this new advent in my life lately. Upon moving into the new home in which I live- I developed all kinds of physical symptoms. Besides the regular palpitations, and constant worry, I have developed what feels like a perpetual tingling erection, brain surges and vivid dreams which shock me awake with a racing heartbeat. I have also begun to slur my words on certain heavy electromagnetic days and feel pins and needles tap dancing around in my microwaved brain. The house in which I currently reside is surrounded by a plethora of electromagnetic activity (city buildings, citizens talking on cell phones and endless wireless waves). The women who lives upstairs has several television monitors, which are on all day- along with her very strong wireless internet connection. Some times as I am falling off to sleep I am zapped awake by what feels like an electrical discharge from my brain to the rest of my body. I am not sure if this is the result of electromagnetic radiation or the disturbing sounds of my neighbor doing Yoga for hours past midnight. It is one of the most unpleasant experiences I have felt.

I have seen several Doctors all of whom have not a clue what is going on. Certain holistic practitioners have told me that I may be suffering from Multiple Sensitivity Syndrome or some kind of toxic poisoning. A healer whom I visited the other day convinced me to believe that what I am suffering from is EMF poisoning. “This is a modern syndrome,” he said- “we are all canaries in the coal mine, lab rats being used to test the short term and long term affects of all this new wireless technology.” I must stay away from wireless technology as much as possible, he told me. Each night before bed I am to wrap tin foil around my head and sleep with it on. A modern day wreath of thorns to celebrate my electromagnetic crucifixion.

The perpetual erection which has a nagging tingling component to it has remained unexplained. Neither Doctors nor esoteric healers know what to make of it. Most just see it as a flaw in the machine, but I believe otherwise. It is my belief that the radiation or electric activity is stimulating something in my nervous system which in return is causing the over-stimulation of my penis. It is becoming more than a discomfort in my life- it is now like living with an antenna stuck to my groin. Trying to sleep with a tingling erection verges upon the very difficult. Going through my life with it is a nag. It is affecting my marriage and creating some difficulties for me when I go out on a job search. Masturbation is of no help, nor is over-thinking about my mother in the nude. The only solution that I can come up with is tin foil and to remain as removed from wireless technology as I can, for a time.

The End.

The Sex Life Of A Man Without One #17

 I had not thought about sex all day. The act never crossed my mind nor did I feel much interest in members of the opposite sex. Last evening was a haunting night- the thought of which I would like now to forget (read Sex Life Of a Man Without One #16 to understand what it is that I am talking about). I spent the day offline far away from the temptations of the computer and Craig’s List. I dedicated myself to more virtuous pursuits like yoga, meditation, taking out the garbage and cleaning the bathroom. I wrote in my journal for a bit and listened to a Brahms symphony over and over again until my mind was relieved of past memories. My wife was working for the majority of the day but would call me ever so often to check in with how I was feeling. “I’m having some anxiety,” I told her several times and her response was always caring and concerned. Sometimes I wonder if my wife is a saint dressed in women’s clothing.

After spending the day fertilizing the seeds of virtue I moved into night with little hesitation. The sun set as planed and the darkness fell upon my bedroom windows like it consistently does night after night. I say bedroom only because I usually am napping at this time and wake in time to watch the dusk turn dark. For dinner I met my family (father, mother, sister) at a small restaurant in a quiet town not far from where I live. The food was filling and the company cordial enough to leave me feeling happy about the few hours we spent together. My father is recovering from major surgery but he was well enough to try and convince me for a futile thirty minutes that Barack Obama was a Muslim and to drink wine and eat pork. By the end of our feast I had consumed a ceasar salad, a bottle of Italian red wine, salmon with bacon sprinkled on top and what the waiter called a chocolate bomb (chocolate ice cream on top of a chocolate fudge brownie). The bill was more than my share of the monthly rent “but the money was well spent, since I have worked my whole life to be able to afford such pleasures,” my father said. I kissed my father goodbye on the lips for the first time in my life and I found it a bit strange that he squeezed my but.

She was standing directly upon a street corner not far from my house. I would not have stopped if I was not driving drunk. My intention was to continue on with the virtuous lifestyle for one more week. This meant abstaining from all activities that left me feeling as if I had compromised my integrity. However, the wine was talking in place of my rational mind. It was Italian wine so it had a tendency to be a bit crazy over the girls. The wine said, “pull over and just see how much it would cost to touch her boobs.” My rational mind said “no just continue on home and stay on the path of virtue.” The wine said, “virtue, who are you kidding. You are a good man. There is nothing wrong with using sexy prostitutes to get off since you have not had sex with your wife in over a year. It is a matter of your health!!” My rational mind retorted, “don’t listen to the wine. It is intoxicating your better sense. If you must return home and jack off to online porn, so be it- but do not pick up the whore!!” “Alright, allright…enough!!” I yelled out loud as I drove my car around the block again to get one more glance at the prostitute.

She had blond hair and was white!! This was enough to make me give in to the wine’s will. Finding a white prostitute with blond hair in Oakland is like stumbling upon a pot of gold. My heart beat with fervent anticipation. I said to myself, “what the hell, the wine was right, this is a matter of my health.” I pulled my car over to the side of the road and waited. I have a technique that I often use. It is hard to tell what the prostitute really looks like when you are at a distance and it is dark out. When I pull over I leave my passenger side door locked and the window slightly cracked. When the prostitute approaches my car and makes an attempt to get in, they have to bend down and look in through the window- at me. “This is how I can see what they look like up close, without commiting,” my mentor taught me many years ago.

Write as I was about to unlock the door and open myself up to the wonderful world of prostitution my rational mind managed to sneak back in and say, “drive, drive away- tonight is not the night.” I felt the voice as if it had come directly from my soul. I looked into her glazed eyes and said “sorry but I can’t,” and then drove away into the night. In my rear view mirror I noticed that she was watching my car pull away like someone who had just lost an important opportunity. Even the I had and erection and a head filled with wine, I was able to return home from a pleasant evening free from the pangs of guilt and shame. Such is the life of a man without a sex life.

The Resurgence Of Absurdistry

I thought about dumping this site, but once again it was saved by a reader. At times I feel as if the words that come out my fingertips go against my deepest principles. I feel ashamed of the things I write and wonder if I should really share this with the world. Then there is this tempestual voice in my head that says, “to hell with principle- this is literature you are creating and in literature there are no limitations you self righteous son of……..” So I will carry onwards, offending myself at every turn. I will continue to learn things about the demented mind that sits on top of my neck and seek out new ways to turn Absurdistry into a immorality play that may serve human kind in some incomprehensible way. The world is not rid of me yet!

“pee, pee.”

Sex Life Of A Man Without One #16 (Dark Night of The Soul)

      Last night I found my self alone on a dark city street. The rain was pouring down in bucket loads and the cold ravaged my bones. I walked through the Tenderloin like a man victimized by a heavy guilt with both hands tucked deeps inside my jacket pockets. What brought me out upon these dark city streets was a longing for relief, a momentary sensation of pleasure. My life has been pressured by all the many ways a man can fail. Without a job and the motivation to find one, a man is left for dead in this wild wild west. So I came out of my home past the hour of midnight and searched for a way out from the dark thoughts that projected my bleak future upon the lense of my mind. I would just walk, I told myself. Despite the demons and goblins dressed in black, searching for blood- I would walk like a man who appears to be free from the ravages of fear. I would stand tall and make my way through the desolate city streets.

I walked up and down rain covered streets. I followed my feet over cracks and used condoms. Between the sounds of alarms and sirens was a space filled with screams and shouts that emanated from deep within the cities belly. I heard the wind wrap it self around brick buildings and run head on into various street signs. The rapid pulsations in my chest spoke of a deep suffering and my feet walked at a fast pace with hope of leaving some of my suffering far behind. Mucos fell from my enlarged nose that felt infected by the damp wind. Rain fell upon my long body and heavy mind like a Baptism from the dark sky above. How had I come so far into my isolation? How had I ended up here?

After miles and miles of endless walking my legs grew weak. I stopped in at one of the only bars that I could find which was still decorated with a neon open sign. Inside sat desolate souls seeking shelter from the cold rain through the medicinal promises of booze. I sat next to a lonely soul who smelled like sadness and worried away his thoughts into a cup filled with brown wine. An older Asian lady who spoke little English served me a warm whiskey and I listened to the sounds of suffering souls like a wayward cultural anthropologist. Everything that was spoken in this bar made little sense to me. The language was incoherent and somehow seemed to be eluding to ruined dreams and better days. All the voices were raspy and filled with a guilt that was disguised by laughter so contrived that not even I was fooled. The man next to me asked me a question that I could not hear and I just sat back in my chair and looked up at God.

Had I become so helpless that my search for pleasure has lead me to this forsaken bar? Had I lost my own sense of virtue and integrity because of an irrational need to feel relief through various forms of sexual debauchery? Was the suffering that I was feeling worth the moments of pleasure that I so secretly searched for? The answer was obvious to me as I thought about my sweet wife who was sound asleep in our warm bed at home. The rose bush that grew outside our bedroom window came into my mind and all I could think was why was this not enough? What was it that my soul seemed to be so restless for? So restless that it was willing to sacrifice the only things that mattered to me my rose bush and wife)? So this is where addiction ends up. In an incoherent bar with lonely souls who are trying to laugh away their forsaken dreams. I finished my whiskey and walked back out into the cold.

As I walked through the wind and the rain I remembered something that William Shakespeare had once said. “Strong reasons make strong actions.” As I looked into the eyes of beggars who asked me for change I wondered about my own reasoning process. Did I have one, or was I merely lead by the animal instincts of my cock. Was I set on fire by an idea without any reasoning agency that could come in between the idea and the following action? This seemed to be the case. I am a man out of control and this may be the cause of every pang and curdle of anxiety and feeling of impending doom that I carry around with me through out the day. A man who lives without a feeling of control is a man who lives in fear.

I found may way back to my one legged and age-ing car which was hesitant about starting up. It was as if it was saying to me for the last time, “are you sure you want to leave behind this nightmare?” I was only to certain of the degree to which I wanted to solve my affliction and return home to the rosey comforts of domesticity. As I struggled to get my car to start I heard the cold angry rain pounding down upon my windshield as if it was trying to wash away all my sins. The rain offered itself to me at that moment, and just as I considered getting out of my car and surrendering, the car started- allowing me away away out from this dark night of my soul.

No More Awards….please!

This blog has been nominated for and given numerous awards. Every other day seems to bring a new nomination or award. I am the only Blogger that has been nominated for so many awards but yet maintains the least amount of interested readers and an all-time low number of comments. Some of the nominations have been for terrible writing style or offensive content but most of the awards I have received have been for worst blog. I am constantly asked by other Bloggers why I write the things I write, what purpose does it serve? I am inept of answers other than the simple response “because it is fun.” But all this fun is bringing me down as the awards keep pouring in. Just this morning I found out that I was nominated for two more awards, all of which have done nothing for my self-esteem. Please, no more awards.

Who would of ever thought that expressing the deep penetralias of my imagination would provoke an onrush of so many awards. I began this blog in the same way that someone would begin therapy. I recognized that I was in need of help and thought that I could either attempt to put my life down in words spoken through the vernacular of stories, or I could continue to suffer in my own private cerebral membrane. I new that I needed to come out of my shell and had remembered the therapeutic effects of writing that a short story teacher I once took a class from- often talked about (even though he had fallen into the rut of alcoholism and animal fetish). I took to blogging like a infant takes to a mothers breast. Stories of perversion and psychosomatic breakdown came poring out of me like lava from the mouth of a crater. Now I am hardly able to control the flow. Bloging has become for me like any other excretory process- I have to do it and if not my health will fail.

So here I am again clearing my body and brain of various thoughts and condemnations I have been feeling this morning. Receiving all the awards that I have has been surprising since I set out not for accolades. The other day I received an award for Least Commented Upon Blog. I never knew that such awards existed but once I received the award for Most Degenerate Content (the award was given because the judges felt that my blog lacked any moral integrity), I realized that any kind of award is possible. There are people in the blogging world with nothing to do but give out ridiculous awards to Bloggers like my self who have nothing to gain from these awards but a lowered sense of confidence to continue writing (and a feeling of isolation because I can not share these awards with my mother, father, sister or wife because it is to embarrassing). To all such award creators who seem to lack a life of meaning- please, NO MORE AWARDS!!

My last entry, The Great Leg Trap, just received two awards, this morning!! I awoke and found in my email the awards which come in the form of a brief letter explaining why I have been chosen and a widget that is offered to me so I can post my victory upon my blog. I have no desire to show off my accolades (like a general does upon his sleeve or a business man does with the quality of his tie). I rather write humbly without any disturbing widgets mentioning that I have won awards for things like “Offensive and Godless Content,” “False Tagger,” “Blogger Most In Need Of Psychological Treatment,” “Defiantly, Worst Blog,” and this morning “Most Ridiculous Entry,” and “Most Failed Attempt To Be Funny Entry.” There is no economic compensation for these awards other than the recognition that comes from humiliation.

So please, I would like to ask all of you who create these absurd award contests for Bloggers like myself to be victimized by…NO MORE AWARDS. It is really starting to affect my self esteem and I am questioning the things I write more and more. I am wondering if there is any point to continue on writing since the majority of my efforts are derided by your ridiculous awards. I have noticed that each time I receive an award I become more depressed and unwilling to write. The corner stone of good writing is in the authors ability to be absolutely honest in whatever he or she writes, and my ability to do so is being compromised by an insecurity that is beginning to form. Each entry that I write I have trepidation about publishing because I am afraid to see what kind of award it will receive. I have even started to delete certain blog entries because I feel they are certain to receive an award that will only increase my despair. Life is hard enough. This blog is only an exercise in cultivating mental health for myself, nothing else!! I do not want your recognition and I certainly do not need these ridiculous widgets!!. So please, I beg you from the bottom of my heart….NO MORE AWARDS!!!!

THE GREAT LEG TRAP.

I wonder about women wearing short skirts? Women wear short skirts, with bare legs and then condemn me with sinister glances when I stare. I wonder if on the unconscious level the short skirt is a device that woman use to find out who among them maybe filled with lust or inflicted with perversions. They can then stay clear of those men or women who may be hazardous to their sense of respectable self. Maybe this is to auspicious of a generalization but tonight while I was staring at a women’s legs that were long and wild like a river, I received a scolding that I am still unable to look up from. Granted I was salivating over the clarity of her skin and the subtler tones which shaped her thighs. I was worried for a moment that she may be unreal, man made- but when I saw the various tattoos, that decorated her ankles, I was almost certain she was human. The skirt that she was wearing barely made it beneath her butt and I was surprised to notice that she carried herself with a certain unpretentious confidence. Everywhere her legs walked my awe struck eyes seemed to follow.

Maybe I was being too intrusive. Or maybe I was simply inspired by the legs. I will admit that I had not noticed anything more about her until she approached me and I had to calmly look into her eyes. I denied any kind of disrespect that she was determined to staple to my forehead. Her claim that I was looking for lust in all the wrong places was one that I found equally disrespectful. I pointed out to her the perfection of her legs but her frustration only grew as I refused to apologize for swallowing up her legs with my lustful eyes. The public which had gathered around us began to listen to the scolding which was developing like a well formed plot. I was a man in love with her legs and her refusal to give them to me would cause my exile and eventual declined. I wanted to remain the gentleman who was unapologetic for his love of women, but when her lover joined her side, I began to understand the degree of my offense.

Maybe it is only gay women who wear skirts to detect the threat of a lingering male pervert? I had never encountered this kind of indignation before. Legs were there to be seen, absorbed and sometimes carried home. Enough legs had been offered to me that I felt I was privy to such long stares. Legs had caused me little problems in my life, until these superior legs which snatched all sense of composure from me. Her girlfriend told me that men were animals always lusting after the objective fantasy of the female- all I could do was reach out and attempt to calm her waving hands. When I told the lover that her girlfriend’s legs were the most beautiful appendages I had ever seen- I received a loud defamation and an invitation to step outside. I had never fought an angry lesbian lover before and I did not want to do so now. I thought about asking for the legs to be mine (she could keep the rest of the body) if I won the fight but instead I excused myself from the tense space I was in and felt the heat of vengeful words landing up on my embarrassed back. Outside, in the cold night air- I put on my winter gloves and walked into the city without any idea that I had just fallen into the great leg trap.

The Sex Life Of A Man Without One #15

Human beings are remarkably resilient to stress. One way or another we manage to persevere, to survive, and to have our moments of pleasure, peace and fulfillment. We are expert copers of internal and external problems. We cope through prayer and religious beliefs, through involvements, denial and diversions that feed our need for joy and belonging. We cope and are buoyed up by sharing love and receiving encouragement from others. Writing has been one way that I have been able to cope with my compulsions and diversions and receive support and encouragement from those who understand the predicament in which I find myself. Maybe my way of coping with the stressors in my life could be referred to as maladaptive, but at this point in my life I will do almost anything for those rare moments of peace, fulfillment and pleasure.

My wife and I have not spoken for over a week. We have not had any sexual encounters with one another for over a year. Our lips have not met for months and my hand occasionally sympathizes with her by rubbing her back. My love for her in ingrained all the way into the root of my soul but a wall has been slowly erected between us that is forcing each of us to cope with a good amount of stress in relation to the other. We both have our means of coping. She works, makes video art on her computer, dances, does grief rituals and smokes and drinks red wine. I on the other hand spend hours looking at Craig’s List Erotic Adds and seek out the company of prostitutes and psychologists. I have been going to therapy at least once a week and I joined a meditation group that is based in teaching the methods of mindfulness. I spend casual time in the company of prostitutes for at least fifteen minutes a week and hours upon hours driving around in my automobile seeking them out. Lately I have taken to purchasing a bottle of red wine and driving around while drinking and listening to jazz. I search for prostitutes in the darkest corners of the Oakland ghetto but nine out of ten time I return home hours later drunk and without having seen a single attractive hooker. My therapist thinks that my way of coping with my stress is not only destructive but maladaptive.

What psychologists mean when they use the term maladaptive to label a person such as myself is that the individual has found ways of coping with stress in ways that are actually self destructive. These attempts at control are labeled “maladaptive coping” because although they do help us tolerate stress and give us some sense of control, in the long run they wind up compounding the stress that we experience. “You can think of maladaptive as meaning unhealthy, causing more stress,” my therapist told me.

One favorite maladaptive coping strategy is to deny that there is any problem at all. When I am high on red wine driving around in my automobile searching out the handy company of prostitutes, spending my days on Craig’s List looking at erotic adds such as Cumm 2 Me Daddy or Two HOLES For The $ Of One, with my hand down my pants, or hanging out in derelict strip clubs or massage parlors- I am not worried about any of the problems facing me in my life. My unemployment, pysiological maladies, marital torments and financial crisis are as far away from me as the moon. My unpaid bills, lack of motivation or aspiration, and anxiety problems are all but gone. It is as if pornography, prostitution and red wine are a kind of medicine for all the stressors that haunt me during the majority of my waking hours.

The other day I went to visit the hooker in the tree and we had a conversation about human beings and our amazing capacity to deal with stress. I paid her forty dollars to undress and provide me with a hand job as we spoke. I told her about how I felt as if I was existing in a state of chronic hyperarousal. She giggled when I told her this but I quickly reminded her that it was not the kind of arousal that she was thinking. “It is my sympathetic nervous system,” I began to explain. “I feel like I am suffering from all the symptoms of long term physiological disregulation.” The hooker in the tree continued to gently rub my penis with some kind of soothing lotion and asked me what I meant. I looked around at the branches, and squirrels that ate what looked like pine nuts while curiously trying to figure out what these two strange humans were doing. It was mid afternoon and in the distance I had a beautiful view of San Fransisco and The Golden Gate Bridge. “I feel like I am suffering from problems like increased blood pressure, cardiac arrhythmias, digestive problems, chronic headaches and chronic anxiety,” I told her as I watched her hand which seemed to be hypnotizing me with its slow and graceful movements. I don’t think that she understood what I was talking about but I know she sympathized with me because after I had an orgasm she gave me back the forty dollars I gave her and told me that “this visit is a gift.”

At my meditation class last week the teacher talked about how a healthy alternative to being caught up in self destructive patterns is to stop reacting to stress and to start responding to it. “This is the path of mindfulness in daily life,” the teacher said. I am not ready to give up my rare moments of sex induced pleasure and peace but I am beginning to see ways that I can cope with my stressors that may be more productive than a hand job or drinking a bottle of red wine (on a daily basis). I am learning to simply acknowledge how I am feeling (without judgement), feel what the sensations are in my body and sit with them without reacting. I inhale and exhale many times in a row and before I know it I have found my moments of peace, fulfillment and pleasure without needing the comforts of Craig’s List Erotic Adds, pornography or hand jobs from prostitutes. We will see how long this lasts.