More About Sex

Photo on 12-4-14 at 6.38 AM #4

Warning: sexually explicit content. Prudes (and those with delicate hearts), you might want to skip this one. 

I don’t know what my big aversion to writing the blog tonight is. That is a lie. I do know what the aversion is. It’s that I don’t want to dive in and tell you a lot of embarrassing shit about the ways in which I am still struggling and risk having you judge me and on and on and on. Same old. Predictable and boring. So I’m just going to skip it. Suffice it to say that I’m still a work in progress; I am diligently working to correct the shit that took me to “suicidal” on September 1, and that— okay, here’s the deal:

Have you ever done anything that was supposed to change your life for the better, perhaps made some grand proclamation about how “enough was enough” and you were finally going to do something about your…. weight, your addictive problems, your career, your marriage, your codependency—the list could go on and on— have you ever said you were going to “change your life?” So that’s essentially what I did at 02:30 on September 1 from the downstairs bedroom at my cousins’ house in Salt Lake where I was visiting. I was just so frustrated with the seemingly— no, not “seemingly”— some of the things that were (are) wrong in my life have been that way for as long as I can remember. Yes, there have been some people who have done some pretty shitty things to me, but ultimately, at least part of “my part in all that” is that I have contented to step in as understudy for my abusers. Adam is gone. He is never coming back. I might as well face it, he’s never going to make good on his promises and he walked with the money. I have to get over it. I can’t sit there in poverty rubbing by gaping and red— well, let’s not go there— okay, let’s do, I got fucked and not in the good way. Adam took my money and my other contributions to what we were working toward together and walked away, laughing, and now shares it with his two new husbands Phillip and John.  But Adam cannot, by virtue of the financial scam he pulled, keep me in poverty for the rest of my life unless I let him. So let’s move on to goal number 5:

Goal #5: I have written 25 movies, 10 TV shows, 25 plays, 5 novels, 5 non-fiction books, a book of poetry and a short story anthology.

Remember I write (and pray) these goals as they are in the real reality— already accomplished. I state the goals like this so I can think of them from a position of gratitude for their fulfillment. I appreciate your prayer support in these goals and, of course, pray (or mediate of affirm or think of) them in the way that suits your tradition. I am humbly grateful for your support and I believe in its power to overcome limitation. However, I do believe that unforgiveness stands in the way of the manifestation of my goals and dreams and it is absolutely essential that I forgive Adam. I’m working on it.

Wait a minute. I never finished my thought before I got sidetracked on Adam (for the millionth time). Hmm. I think there’s some “gold” in that. Let’s think about what happened there. I was thinking about something unpleasant. I hadn’t even really mentioned it to you in name but I had said “I was still a work in progress” when actually what I was thinking about is the fact that I’m not really living up to my “sexual ideal” as far as how I want to live my life in preparation for meeting that someone I want to share my life with. I’ve admitted it to you before but, yeah, I have a propensity to self-medicate with sex. One piece of that (and it is really only one piece—its a very complicated and multifaceted thing, sexuality) — but one piece of it is that I had probably (not hyperbole) approached Adam wanting to make love a hundred times during our years together only to have him reject me. That tends to wear on a guy. I had actually come to believe I was the unattractive old queen he treated me like. In fact, as I look at some pictures of me from periods during our time in Salt Lake and I was even beginning to look  like what he treated me like. God help me I was being for him what he “wanted” me to be even when that something was something he nor I would say we wanted.  He wouldn’t want to fuck that. I wouldn’t want to be that. You tell somebody they’re a piece of shit enough times, they’ll start performing “piece of shit” for you! Thank God I got free of that horrible “marriage.”

For the first several month after we split, I ate a container of ice cream every night. Part of that is because he used to glare at me every time I wanted to eat dessert. When I liberated myself from him, I thought, “I’m free of that fucker now! I’ll eat ice cream every goddamn night if I want to!” And I did. And I got fat. Isn’t that so brilliant— how we will let our abusers hurt us even after they’re gone by hurting ourselves to prove they have no power over us any more? Wow. So, yeah, I got fat. And then I got my fat ass back to the gym. And I have been doing everything I knew to do to get back into shape for about a solid year now. And it’s worked. I feel better about the way I look now than I have in probably ten years.

Here’s the next piece to the Adam rejecting me thing. So over those years I came to feel very unattractive. But now that I don’t feel that way anymore, I’ve had a fair amount of “fun” going out and contradicting the Adam-imposed image of myself by fucking a whole lot of guys who are hotter than Adam. See how twisted that is? Whatever. Keep your judgements to yourself. Who asked you? Oh. I guess I did. Well, anyway, yes, I know that it is not the most healthy approach to getting over that kind of abuse but let me tell you brothers and sisters— when it works, it works good. But then ultimately of course it becomes a sad and lonely dead end because that’s not really what I’m looking for after all. But here’s the deal: I’m an addict (of various and sundry sorts) and if something helps me feel better in the moment, I will do it til I run the wheels off of it. Because I don’t drink or use drugs at all anymore, sex is a way I can get high— and I love to be high. No, no, you don’t understand— I loooooooove to get high. If I had my way I’d walk around all day everyday glassy-eyed and grinning on the wacky weed and balancing “elated and energetic” with “very relaxed and serene” by popping one Oxycontin after Adderall after Oxycontin after Adderall— well, you get the picture. I’d probably be good with just those three— unless, while high, someone offered me a frosty pint of Guinness and then, well, they’d probably never find me. But drugs and alcohol just don’t work for me any more. They are never going to work for me again. You can’t make a cucumber out of a pickle and honey, I was pickled years ago. I think that might be part of why I look so goddamn good at 49. I’m just preserved!  So yeah, if I can’t be high, the next best thing is to seek that sustained state of “everything’s-gonna-be-alright” that comes during the few seconds of orgasm. That’s why I’ve never been really been great at stretching it out. I try to rush to orgasm. That’s where the best high is, the pure-grade uncut shit.  I’d rather fire off the first round(s), quickly reload, and come around for subsequent attacks. (Sorry, Marine metaphors often find their way into my sex talk— there’s one for my charts.) So as I was saying, yeah, I like to be high. And the reason I like to be high is because I don’t like being in pain. And I’m talking specifically about psychological pain. The physical kind, I’m actually pretty tolerant of— fuck that, as long as I’m being embarrassingly honest, I kinda like physical pain (another one for my chart). So sex brings me pain relief, it let’s me get high and still consider myself sober. There, I said it. And I’m making headway in that department but I have to tell you that it’s no picnic. And in this case, I’m having to try to find balance between being gentle with myself as I seek “progress not perfection” and giving myself a “free pass” to just do anything and anybody I want and pretend there’s going to be no consequences. That’s all I feel like saying about that tonight. That was hard.

So the other point I keep trying to return to (and maybe that I’ve gotten the other off my chest I can) is— you know how, when you make a decision to improve some area or maybe multiple areas of your life— you start out well— dash out of the gate with a firm resolve to “really do it this time” and maybe you go along for a few weeks doing well and sticking to your plan and making headway and then all of a sudden BAM! and you come up against all this resistance and you want to stop doing all the things that are working and restart doing all those things that never really worked that well at all? Well that’s where I am. That’s why I didn’t want to write the blog tonight, why I’d probably like to abandon it all together and surf for porn that extra hour each day. But we know where that takes me. It takes me to 2:30 am on September 1. So what is it that makes me want to stop doing the things that are really working to make my life better? It’s “Resistance.” Some philosophies talk about it as “the ego, trying to survive.” Some religions attribute it to a “devil” or some other evil deity. It really doesn’t matter what you call it. It’s what stands in the way of my progress and my growth. And it’s what was trying to keep me from writing this blog tonight. But tonight, “the devil” lost. The blog is working. The blog is doing its job. And because I know you’re on the other side of this light window listening to me, it gives me strength and courage to continue on through some very scary territory for me. Thank you for that. I hope your journey is made a little easier by or at the very least you may learn from my mistakes.

See y’all tomorrow.

WAIT! I never finished that one thing— the “gold” I was talking about about thinking about Adam. Let’s break it down “Barney style” (as they said in the Marines):

  1. I was thinking about things that were unpleasant that made me feel disempowered (my lack of productivity, reticence to write the blog tonight, sexual compulsivity, et al)
  2. In addition to making me feel bad about myself, it also brought about a veeeeery old programing that has to do with fear of emotions. (As a little guy, I was afraid of my emotions— one main reason is that I was convinced that they would “betray my secret”— that I was gay.)
  3. So rather than be tossed around by the unpredictable, I go to thoughts of Adam. The feelings are predictable (even if unpleasant) and I get the illusion of control back.
  4. And most importantly, for all the myriad feelings I have around Adam (hurt, betrayal, worry, shame, fear, sadness) there is always, always, some good old “justifiable” anger! And toxic though it is, my rage to me feels like power!  And for a guy who’s ended up fucked in so many situations where he felt disempowered, that’s a whole lot of mainline drug! Pass the rage please. Make mine a double.

So here’s what I’m going to do: the next time I find myself thinking about Satan— I mean Adam, I’m going to look around my headgear and see if there’s not something else floating around up there that I might be trying to avoid thinking about. I’ll bet what I’m going to find is that there’s some area of opportunity for growth where, if I’ll focus on that instead of my eight-year-mistake, I’ll get a helluva lot closer to those goals and when those goals are made manifest, (especially number 6: “I am the man of my dreams and I’m married to the right and perfect husband for me”) I won’t even ever think about what’s-his-name. I rarely think about my other exes. Okay, not “what’s-his-name”, Adam. And goddammit now I have to pray for him.

Dear God, Infinite Creator and Source Supreme, I now pray for Adam Nelson MD. For every good thing I’ve ever prayed for for myself, I now pray for for him too. If only one of us can have it, give it to him and his new husbands. May they live in eternal peace and happiness and if any thought of me brings him pain, blot me out of his memory. And so it is, thank you God, Amen.

Pray it til you feel it, right?

Okay, I think I’m done. Pardon the double-dip. Now…

See y’all tomorrow.


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