Mall Trip Finale (I hope)

Called the Footlocker the other day. My shoes were in but the girl wasn't working that day.

This evening the wife was out, so I seized the opportunity to leave the house alone, before she came home. Passed by the shoe store again; luckily the girl was there.

I kidded around with her nonstop. At first I was nervous and wasn't sure how I'd break the ice and start talking to her. But I just cracked some joke off the top of my head and started killing. I was funny as hell.

I jokingly told her I felt weird wearing my new shoes out of the store, since they are black and my belt is brown. She laughed and pointed out that my sweatshirt (a new and very stylish one, not some sloppy slacker sweatshirt) covered my belt. "Yeah, but I still know it's there. Ya know? Like, I feel like a dork, undercover. Don't you feel that way when your underwear doesn't match your outfit?"

She smiled so broadly, lips closed, and I watched her blush deep red right before my eyes. So young, so inexperienced, unworldly, uncontaminated. Most of the girls I fool around with nowadays are so well-traveled that they've been penetrated 10 different ways. Not much is new or shocking to them. Some of these girls are into really kinky stuff: I've been with women who know what they like, and tell me in explicit detail that they want to have their tits tied up and whipped, be fisted vaginally during anal sex, be made to drink my piss, have their faces slapped over and over, be raped, have their throats fucked til they retch, be called a worthless slut or a whore or a sperm receptacle, be handcuffed, blindfolded, beaten, whipped, tortured, violated...

A simple mention of their underwear wouldn't make them bat an eye.

To think that I brought heat to her face and made her pulse elevate...
Man, what I would do to her. So many different delicious parts of her body to explore and send her skyward with new sensations, new pleasures...

Eventually I turned the conversation toward "Do you work 40 hours?" and learned that she

• works part time
• is 21
• everyone thinks she looks 16
• has a 7-month-old daughter
• takes care of her daughter when she's not working
• isn't married
• lives with her boyfriend
• her boyfriend is the baby's father
• she saw that I have a baby (which means she saw my wife)

Clearly she likes me. I could totally pull her, too. She seems so naïve that I bet it'd be easy. She'd fall for all the most basic lies and excuses. I could string her along for a long time. Her boyfriend would be easy to push out of the way. A young guy? Please. Step aside, chump. You're in my world. I'd just need to pass by her store every now and then to say hi or buy some shoes or sports apparel, become friendly acquaintances, and A) "wait out" her relationship with her boyfriend, then be "there for her" when they break up, or B) be more charming and intriguing than he, and lure her away.

I won't bore you with the excuses that have already halfway formed in my head, as to why I was at the store with my wife ("Wife? No, that's my ex, we just still get along, for the baby's sake") or why my wife was wearing a ring ("She wears that so she doesn't feel like people see her and think she's a single mother"), etc. But I noticed that my brain was already doing its work in the background.

Anyway, she's too innocent for me to corrupt. I wouldn't want to hurt a young girl, with a child, no less. Luckily for me my libido has waned enough since I was younger, and her mall is so out of the way, that I doubt I'll find myself compelled to go after her. Please god, for her sake, don't let me fuck this beautiful person.

Oh my God

I just went upstairs and my wife was there in the amazingly beautifully decorated baby's room (all her), reading to our baby, after her bath. My wife is so simple and wonderful, she has plans and does them and that's that. No clouded thoughts, no million-line long list of To Do's or Want To Do's. Yet here I am downstairs, with my pile of wires under and around the desk, computer half open with the side of the case off, cyber-researching this litle 25 year old chick with big perfectly round close together canteloupe tits and a very flirty attitude who works at the copy shop, deleting my history and cookies and temporary internet files every time I think I'm almost busted, with 18 browser windows open and a messy desk.

I really should be put down like a sick animal, or medicated heavily, or have someone take charge of my life and get me out of this rut. I'm a nice guy with a massive potential - really I could be a terrific husband and employee and friend - but so far my life is let's say half over, and no luck yet. Sometimes I just hate myself, I think about some of the things I've done to people and some of the ways I hurt people. So I say fire away. Really the only person who would be sad would be my wife. She'd be devastated. Not my mom, not my dad (I'm sure I'm a failure in his eyes, I bet I'm exactly like the flaky son in Parenthood), not my best friends - I'm not sure they care much about me anyway. Not really. Maybe the only reason I'm being spared is for my wife's sake.

I forgot I decided long ago I can only really save one person, not all these whores and incest survivors - not even two or three, just one person. I decided to sacrifice my life for my wife's; my single life chasing women, to get married so that I would make my wife happy. I sure haven't done a very good job of either thing.

Diary Of A Madman

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Return To The Mall

I got a coupon for 30% off at the Footlocker. I wanted to take advantage of it and order those shoes I liked from that girl. I couldn't see any way to get out of the house with the wife, and when I mentioned that I wanted to go order those shoes, we ended up going to the mall together.

I was hoping I could urge her to go enjoy herself in some baby or women's store while I was at the shoe store, but no dice. For the second time, shoe girl saw the wife and baby.

I was funny as hell, though. I made the girl smile. I ordered the shoes (they were out of stock in my size). I left my cell phone number for when they arrive. If she called the house and got my wife's cheery voice on the answering machine, it would show her without a doubt I was married. Even if not, if I started hitting on her and offered to give her my number, she might just say "You already gave it to me when you ordered the shoe," or, look up my address and number later, etc.

I hope I don't bang her, but she is really cute with a terrific smile, and you can never be too sure.

Nothing But The Dog In Me

You got that right, buddy.

I have had so many orgasms - and it has been so long since I've had a good dry spell without one - that they really are not THAT great any more. Occasionally I find some stimulus that nets a really good one, but generally they are just a brief and damped flare of pleasure.

Maybe I've burned out the pleasure center of my brain. Maybe my serotonin regulators have tuned down the chemicals in my brain, trying to find balance and bring me back to normal, which is their job. You do enough coke, or other drugs, including medication, and pretty soon you need larger amounts to get the same effect. I'm sure that's what's happened to me.

So what am I in for if I quit the sex addiction? And isn't there SOME way I can find moderation? Surf for porn for like ONE hour a night or something? I really hate to say goodbye to my good friend, porn, the orgasm, sexual excitement.

And how the hell am I supposed to go to a sex addiction meeting? I wasn't molested, I don't believe in God or a higher power, I don't smoke cigarettes, and I don't drink coffee.

I just need someone to show me the way, give me a plan, or open some new doors. Recovering Addict's blog has really moved me, but, I am scared the God-centric-ness of it will leave me behind.

I did find this: smartrecovery.org. It's secular. That means no god.

It seems very down to earth, and addresses a lot of what I don't like about AA, NA, SA, etc:

•Lapses are not a point to start over, but a point to get back on the horse and keep riding.
•We don’t start over at day zero – we’ve learned too much to say we’re starting from scratch.

Comment

How?

And won't I miss my porn? God how I love my porn. Some of favorite pictures or movies are like good, good friends of mine. They're beautiful.

And how will I not stare at girls? Flirt? Scheme? Cheat? My god, they're everywhere. They've been on my mind my entire life- definitely since I was 5, maybe earlier.

And won't I just fuck up? I mean, it seems like for every one person that get clean and stays that way, recovery is filled with ten people who keep fucking up. I have no self control, I'll be one of the ones who fuck up.

I can't do moderation. I have no feel for it. And I can't have a life with no porn.
But my inability to moderate can be a good thing. I'm one of those people who, when he falls off the wagon, indulges to incredible excess. But when I'm on the wagon, I'm really on. If I can keep it up, I can keep it up for a long time.

One time we were bowling with some friends, and I'm no bowler, it was like the fourth time in my life I had ever bowled. As usual I got a 78 or so. I vowed to do better the next time.

I analyzed my play and thought about how to do better. Two weeks later we returned to the bowling alley, and I proceeded to knock out a 270. People around the alley were clapping, watching, it was pretty cool. I told the girl in the lane next to us (who was bowling pretty badly) "It's ok, I bowled a 78 my last game a couple weeks ago." "Yeah, right! You're probably a pro!"

Behind me, I heard my friend quietly tell my wife in awe, "Man, he can do anything he puts his mind to." She proudly replied, "I know."

Does she?

ARRRRGH!!

I'm a madman!

一百個邪魔 (100 Demons)

We saw The Aviator last night. Before the movie, I didn't know much about Howard Hughes other than that he built the Spruce Goose and became a recluse.

"For years he had lain in bed watching movies, immersed in a series of two-dimensional worlds that he chose himself and totally controlled.He ran his favorites over and over, the sound turned up to accommodate his impaired hearing, the dialogue booming and reverberating in the darkened room. He had run his No. 1 choice, Ice Station Zebra, more than 150 times, until his functionaries knew the entire sound track by heart."

As we sat there in the dark, the prison searchlight hit me from behind, warming my ears and neck, turning the baby hairs white, exposing me. I know she recognized the same traits in me. She's seen me stay inside for days, naked, unshaved, avoiding phone calls and tiptoeing around when there's a knock on the door. Not because I'm a recluse, just because I don't want anyone to see me this way if I'm not showered and ready yet. And like I said before, I get a little quiet and shy. It's peaceful when you're alone. Intrusions are painful.

She's come home from the night shift and found the telltale towels I've sometimes forgotten to remove from the windows before she returned. Not because I'm paranoid. Just so anybody who passes by can't see me whacking off. Like the neighbors, or in case a friend of mine comes by, or one of my enemies to check out my house and spy on me. Or worse, use the opportunity to pull out the digital camera and humiliate me on the net and in my industry, for the rest of my life.

She's seen me chant the same phrase over and over, and has a name for it. She's witnessed me listen to the same song, watch the same movie, even rewinding and replaying 10 seconds of one, over and over for hours. Not because I'm obsessive, it just sounds good. Look at techno music, for example.

She's seen my jars of urine in my storage unit. Not because I'm crazy, just because I get distracted and end up in there for hours and there's no restroom there; also the urine might be useful somehow, like pour it in the mail slot of one of my enemies or someone who's fucked me over.

And when he crashes the plane on its test flight and winds up with the scars on his face and the bridge of his nose, she had to be thinking it was way too similar to my scars across my face and the bridge of my nose, from my crash of my own Millenium Falcon. Anybody who knows me would watch that scene and think "You know who this crazy fuck reminds me exactly of?" And that's where the beginning of the end gets its foot in the door.

Likewise, she's seen my genius. And my persistence. And my sometimes-successes. Even when the rest of the world said I was wrong, I turned out to be right. That's how I made my money.

Why does this matter? Because I know how her mind works. I'm sure I'll lose her. Someday she'll have had enough, or she'll see me going crazier and crazier, or who knows what, and she'll leave. And then I'll really be fucked.

I know I'm right about that last bit - that I'll be fucked without her. In fact, I just found a quote about it from Hughes himself: "Every man has his price, or a guy like me couldn't exist."

Problem is, I'm not a billionaire, or even a millionaire. I can't exist without her. I think I'd barely get by. I'd stay employed but not for long. I'd come in later and later after whacking off all morning, until they got sick of it. Sooner or later (always later) I'd get another job when I was out of money, but I do get the feeling that I might slip past even that if I were really alone. I might become so timid that by the time I was ready to get a job, it'd be too late, and I'd come home to find the locks changed and then I'd REALLY be fucked. Once my spirits were that low I'd end up homeless for sure, and once I was homeless it would be pretty dicey to bet on me pulling myself up out of it.

I better get on the program. I need to get my act together, build up some self-discipline, a routine, and some new habits, for another shot at it.

I'm 35, soon I'll be 40. And then I'll really be bitter if I haven't made some real money. What happened to my youth? I'm pissed I didn't bang more 20-somethings. They're so goddamn delectable. I feel like 22 year olds are unavailable to me now, like they think of themselves as kids and of me as an old man. What the fuck happened? Where was I? Oh yeah, working for chump change at something I enjoyed. I was learning, networking. Only I didn't use it right. Assholes I know who were my age, now they all have houses and nicer toys than I do. And I'm far smarter than they are.

If I end up an old man with completely unrealized potential I'll be unswallowably bitter. I'll never be able to get my arms around it. So I need to get it straightened out and make my fortune now, so I can coast and go nuts peacefully, rather than broke and bitter.

Anyway. Here goes nothing.

~

I need to get some medication, so I can think straight. I have all these thoughts and ideas and inventions elbowing their way to the front of my consciousness. I know there's something weird about the way my mind works.

One time, late at night driving in the canyons this side of Malibu, I came upon one of the outdoor sets where Lost Souls was being filmed. The set wasn't busy, and I found the craft services table was unguarded. All the sausages and bacon were cold as a corpse and I knew they were going to go to waste, so I proceeded to stuff the pockets of my jeans and my jacket full of them, walked back to the car, and continued on my way. I knew the dogs would love it, and I was hungry myself. You really can't eat very much cold sausage and bacon though, before the congealed grease coats the roof of your mouth and throat; it's rather sickening. Anyway, I know that's probably considered weird. But what did I care? On paper it made sense.

Anyway, that was just a testament to how weird my mind must be. At least compared to everyone else. But my point is - as I just inadvertantly proved - that I can barely keep a train of thought going. They say that stimulants like Ritalin calm some people down, which clears up their thought processes and makes them act less like a meth fiend. Maybe it would work on me; it seems to me that there is something similar between a crank user and someone who is a tweeker biologically.

For example, one afternoon I was at my friend's shop where he stores and works on his race cars, working on something of my own, and I started cleaning my car out. Naturally, I got a plastic grocery store bag (I usually have a stash of them in the car) and made it my trash bag. Then I got another bag for recyclable trash. And another for the little stuff floating around my car I didn't want to throw away: CD cases, a small red vinyl case containing a micrometer, a pair of pliers, an extra cell phone battery, etc. Then I got another bag for papers and business stuff that had gotten loose and slid around, mixing with all the other clutter. Then another bag just for the three bottles of motor oil I found. Since the motor oil was at hand and I knew I was a quart low, I popped the hood and topped up the engine.

My friend's buddy (race cars are magnets for a peanut gallery) laughed, without malice. "You're just like a tweeker!" "What?" I feigned ignorance mixed with a difference of opinion, but I knew he was right. I wasn't going to admit to it, and I wanted to learn more about how the aberrant mind works - and why it was so easy for this barely-literate ex-con to see through me.

"You know how a tweeker is."
"No. How?"
"You know. They start cleaning their car, then they go in the house and get distracted and start doing something else. They get ten different things going at once and they don't finish anything. Their car is still sitting out front with the door open and stereo on. Fuckin' tweekers."

I turn and look at my car, with hatchback, both doors, and the hood open. The stereo is on, but quietly.

I laugh and agree that tweekers are a problem, I just have a lot of shit in my car, et cetera,
et cetera,

et cetera.

Anyway, like I said: Here goes nothing.

I hope not literally.

True Lies

I have an entire alternate identity I use for women. Ever see the movie "True Lies"? Tom Arnold's character hands Arnold Schwarzenegger's character his personal effects as he re-transforms from the smooth international spy Harry Renquist back to the self-absorbed, boring Harry Tasker the software salesman.


INT. SEDAN - NIGHT
Harry is emptying his pockets... passport, business cards etc. All documents under his name "Renquist". He double checks that his pants and jacket pockets are empty. Gib fastidiously puts the items into a plastic zip-lock.

HARRY

Empty. Go.

Gib starts handing him items from a briefcase. This should all feel like a tired ceremony between them.

GIB

Harry Tasker wallet. Harry Tasker passport. Plane ticket stub, hotel receipt, Tasker. Two postcards of Lake Geneva. House keys. Souvenir snowing Swiss village.

That's me. Harry Tasker billfold, Harry Tasker driver's license (you peel the first layer of lamination with its holographic seal off your real driver's license and stick it onto the fake license you Photoshopped and printed out on thick glossy paper), Harry Tasker cell phone (prepaid so there are no bills in the mail or on the web, and you buy the service in the area in which you claim to live, so your area code and prefix are correct)...

The cell phone is an important one. It's amateurish, cheap, and risky to have just one phone and simply program it with guy's names in place of the girls' real names. Your wife or girlfriend could check the bill and see what numbers you called and when, then call them and get a woman or hear a woman's voice saying to leave a message, etc. See it snowballing? Now your mistress has your real home phone on her caller ID, and so on. Now it gets worse. The possibilities are endless. I don't need to spell it out for you.

You also don't want your wife to check your voicemails and hear any of your messages, and even if you never gave her your passcode, she could hit redial on the house phone and read it off the display as the extra few digits you entered after your cell phone's number. And you never want to create an issue by not giving her your passcode if she ever asked.

Taking risks like that are like bad lies. Sooner or later the odds catch up with you. It's inevitable.

Back to the alter ego. You need to carry cash, lots of it. You can't be hitting an ATM in the middle of the night somewhere when you were supposedly somewhere else. Your bank statements come to your house, and anyway they're available online. Think about it. You also don't want her alone in your car for long. What if she goes through the glovebox, looking for something, innocently or not? Real name, real address on registration, etc. Keep it locked all the time.

You have to keep your stories straight, and have thought through and rehearsed every possibility. What if you get pulled over? You have to be able to produce your real license from your real wallet, and not get caught with your fake one, and have an explanation to your girlfriend for why the officer called you by another name. Simplest and most boring is best. Claiming you are in the CIA or the Witness Protection Program is amateurish and risky.

What about your fake reason why you don't use credit cards? Again, simplest and most uncool is best. You have shitty credit, or, they are all maxed out, or, you never got any credit cards when you were younger since you didn't want to start using them unwisely, but now since you have no good lines of credit, you can't even get a card, etc.

What if your vehicle breaks down and needs to be towed? Where will you have it taken and how can you avoid having her drive you home? If she insists, where will she drop you off and how can you avoid having her try to come inside?

What if you run into someone your wife knows? That scenario in itself spawns a tree of possibilities and with each one, multiple trains of thought that must be considered. Above all, you have to do damage control with this acquaintance to minimize the idea s/he thinks you're cheating. You also want to make sure your girlfriend doesn't notice you doing this. "This is my... coworker buddy Jenny" won't fly, and besides, any smart acquaintance - or wife - will see through it. The idea is not to expose yourself to your girlfriend, thereby ruining your relationship, just to ensure not looking like you were cheating.

Wedding ring? Where do you stash it while you are on your date, and how do you make sure you don't get a tan line where your ring is? There's one thing that can't be avoided, though. That's feeling like the scum of the earth when you see your precious ring along with loose change, three breath mints, two condoms, and pocket lint, in your palm at the counter of the hooker motel.

What about holidays? You better think about it long and hard before you start anything, since New Year's and Valentine's Day are the big two. Your birthday would be up there alongside them, but that's what the fake ID is for. Fourth of July and some other ones are snuggled pretty close in the number two spot, so you better end your outside relationship, or not start it, or have your excuses lined up, before the holidays.

~

The retransformation shouldn't take place in front of your house, nor should it take place someplace public like a gas station on a corner where some friend of your wife's might see your vehicle, or worse, stop for gas.

Trace evidence? Your hair smells like a smoky bar or club, and your hand or wrist is stamped. Receipts in pockets? Stray hairs of the wrong color on the passenger seat? How about the smell of perfume on your neck or clothes, or worse, the smell of pussy on your cock? If you're in a hotel/motel you can take a shower, and it's best to leave the pits unwashed and use soap on your neck and from the waist down, or you may give yourself away when you come home smelling freshly scrubbed. If not in a motel, it's time for a hooker's shower with those brown paper towels. Anyone who's tried wetting toilet paper and wiping with that will know it disintegrates and causes more of a mess than you had in the first place. And the first time your paper towels get water on your clothes and you have to wait for them to dry, or if you're in a hurry and decide to come right into the house, get a glass of water, and spill it on yourself to cover for it, either way you're thinking, "This shit is way more complicated than I thought."

What about your clothes? There is a whole topic of discussion unto itself. The smell of cigarettes from that bar or club, and if you have an alternate set of clothes that you left the house with, how do you account for why your going-out clothes are in your car, if they get found out? How do you sneak them inside to wash and get the next set?


It is a tremendous amount of work.

It's funny, having two girls you don't really get twice as much sex. And you get ten times as many problems.

You Think You Know

But you have no idea.

You really have no idea how big my porn collection is. You think you know, but only when I take you up into outer space and look down on how tiny and puny your entire planet is will you have an understanding.

I probably sound like a psycho, but I am a genius. A porn genius.

Birthday in review

Met up with the wife and her family downtown for dinner. As I got out of the car, I saw a really cute brunette walking perkily down the sidewalk on her cell phone. She checked me out while pretending not to. I watched her walk by in her black top and grey slacks. She had a muffin ass. A muffin ass. And it jiggled in her clothes quite noticeably. God what I would have done to that. She hung up after not very far, and I was going to pursue her and ask her out, just throw myself at her feet in a respectable way. I think chances were good I could have gotten her digits. Believe me, when you've been an atomic dog as long as I have, you learn to read the signs and you get pretty good at knowing when.

But I realized my family-in-law was probably watching me from the restaurant or their car or something. Goodbye, muffin ass. Oh man what I would have done to her.


There was also a cute asian chick working on her laptop in the window at the coffee shop as I walked past.

I still miss this one waitress at the restaurant we ate at. She was like a Thai version of Aisha Tyler. She clearly liked me. I bet I could have pounded that.

Break Fast

I may as well come clean about something else. The other night when the wife was out, I passed by the grocery store on my way home from the mall, feeling like I was looking very tired. There was a really hot chick working the 15 Items Or Less line. She was in her late 20's or early 30's, had a lot of makeup on, bleached hair, looked a lot like Mariska Hargitay. No wedding ring. Semi-clawlike fingers, a sure sign of a bitch and/or a cigarette smoker. When it comes to women who smoke, I can spot one just by her fingers. Generous women have rounded fingertips. Hippie hands. Dirty smokers have selfish claws. It sounds fanciful but I have an amazing expertise at it.

She too had her "I'm not looking at anyone because I'm very good looking so I don't want you to think I'm the slightest bit interested in you" attitude on. I swear she didn't look up at one single customer as she rang them up. Plus that particular store is in a pretty ghetto area and almost exclusively scummy people go there.

Anyway, when I got done paying for my groceries I asked her where the rice milk was. I followed her directions to aisle 3 and grabbed two containers. They had almond milk too, which the wife drinks, and knew I should buy it since we were low on both mine and hers. But then, only halfway consciously thinking about it, I decided it would fuck up my excuse to flirt. If I was "feelin' it" I was considering saying something about how I had a craving for horchata, and wanted to cheat and make my own by adding cinnamon sticks to rice milk. If she was the slightest bit not a bitch, she'd laugh and I'd be off to the races. But buying almond milk too might fuck it up. Why would I be buying that? What am I, some kind of milk freak? If I were in normal spirits I could make up some wisecrack off the top of my head about it and play it off.

As it turns out, she didn't even look up at me on my second trip through the line, but it didn't matter, I was just not feeling it that night.

Breakfast

Today for breakfast I had rice milk for my cereal. My wife didn't have any almond milk. I dawned on me that I really hadn't thought much about not getting it for her. I just thought about making the right impression on the checkout woman.

Break / Fast

I really am a wreck of a human being. I should be shot. I can't even make a To Do list any more. I've done it so many times, I feel like a parody of a real person. I never get everything done. I never get totally caught up in my life. I would but I run out of energy. I start doing something, anything, even a simple task like cleaning up, and I think "Oh my god, how on earth am I going to make it all the way to the end?" It feels like walking from Los Angeles to New York: You walk for an hour and realize you're incredibly far from your goal and you haven't made one iota of a difference in your journey yet, not really.

In my opinion this is why goofy people get caught up doing the stupidest little tasks. They feel like their whole life is shit, and they are ineffectual, so they just focus on doing some little tiny thing. This is the guy with the piece of shit broken down 70's car with four different tires and the red tape taillight and the plastic window, packed full of his worldly possessions, and McDonalds trash, and his sleazy angry wife in her threadbare t-shirt. The car leaks coolant and automatic transmission fluid and motor oil, and it needs brakes. He's working on installing fog lights in the auto parts store parking lot.

I really am just a horrible person. I need to get another job like my last one, getting paid over a hundred thousand dollars a year to do nothing all day. Instead my poor wife is the one working. I make more than she does, just from my severance package and unemployment, but still I feel like a total sleaze. I should be bringing home lots more money so she can be happy. So she can have whatever she wants. So I can provide for our daughter. And so I can maybe have a few of the things I want.

I made somewhere over $200,000 last year and all I bought myself was some clothes (on clearance, 50% off), four books off Amazon.com (used), a pack of blank CD's, the big hard drive, and I spent $500 to fix our computer. So I could surf for porn.

I did spend money on the wife. I let her buy whatever she wants. It's an easy way to make her happy, and to be different. And it is an easy way to impress her friends and coworkers. Maybe I can sleep with them, etc. Come to think of it, I have fantasized about pretty much every one of them and have evaluated the possibilities and how it could go down. Pardon the pun.

I did also spend money on my girlfriend. She has never once paid for dinner. Or anything. Hotels and motels, alcohol...
I fill up her tank whenever she lets me. I have the oil changed in her car sometimes. And I buy her gifts. I pity her, and I want to provide for her. Another part of me hopes it will redeem me in a way. And yet another part hopes it will make her decide that she'll do more of the things I want in bed, as a reward.

I'm not proud of that last part. I'm just telling you how I am.

It's almost my birthday

I'm starting to really realize just how much my entire life revolves around women and sex. I have always known it in the back of my head, but thinking about it here really brings it to the forefront.

I stop what I'm doing and walk outside to pretend to talk on my cell phone, so I can keep watching her ass.

I change checkout lines in the grocery store so I can be in the line with the one I could most easily hook up with.

If I am getting nice clothes, the whole purpose is to get chicks.

Really even the things I dream about, all are based around chicks. If I think about doing some cool new art project, it's so I can impress one of my wife's friends or the girl in one of the couples we're friends with, so I can sleep with her.

If I think about getting a Ferrari, I think to myself, I prefer the hardtop, but, maybe it will be easier to pull chicks with the convertible.



I stare, I fantasize, I plot.

~

The irony about the dreams is that I'm so caught up in chicks (porn) that I keep myself from being enough of a success to be able to afford that Ferrari, that diamond-encrusted Rolex, that $2,500 suit or those hand-tailored clothes that just reek of style and money.

Home Alone

I went by the mall tonight. The wife is at work and I was trying to figure out what to do. On the one hand I'd love to go someplace exciting, like into L.A. or Hollywood. If I tried hard enough I might be able to talk to a girl and make her laugh, flirt with her. But on the other hand I might drive for an hour and a half and then totally strike out.

Also I'm tired, and there is nothing worse than "trying too hard" when you're worn out and off your game. I probably look old now anyway.

I didn't want to risk the drive of shame, returning home all dolled up and smelling of foo-foo juice, a washed-up loser who spent $20 in gas to drive to where the hip, happening, young people are, but was such a dweeb he might as well have been from another planet.

At the mall I passed by the shoe store. Sure enough the girl was there who I'd flirted with a few days ago, when I was with my wife. When I came in tonight she was happy to see me, and gave me the smile of a mall girl who knows she has a regular, a guy who comes by because he likes her, not because he's checking to see whether the new Nikes are in. I found it weird since I assume she knows I'm a lot older than she is. Maybe she thinks I am only 27. A lot of people do. We talked about the shoes I was still looking for, she told me to come back this weekend. I made a point of asking which days she works, and she made a point of telling me exactly when she gets in - and closes.

When I see her next and order and prepay for the shoes, I will ask for my dollar back - otherwise she's double-dipping. She'll laugh.

If I want to pick her up, I'll use my butter-wouldn't-melt look and say something like "I can't keep coming back and buying shoes just to have an excuse to see you, and you'd probably see through it and think I was a total stalker, so, can I have your number?"

I hope I don't, but right now I can't see anything wrong with it.

I swear I'm mentally ill. Maybe it's my brain chemistry. Maybe that's what's wrong with me – bad chemistry. All my problems and anxiety can be reduced to a chemical imbalance or some kind of misfiring synapses. I need to get help for that. But then I'll still be fat, though. Nothing's gonna change that unless I do. And right now the chances do not look good. I have to start, I can't stay stuck in this rut. I'm almost 35 years old and in a lot of ways I'm not much further along than I was when I was 25. Or 18, or 15. I'm going to go do some situps and pushups and stuff, and then take a shower.

Trip To The Mall

The wife and I went to the mall. Among other places, we went into a shoe store - I wanted to check to see whether they had the shoes I liked on that girl from the other day.

The shoe chick really seemed to like me. She was like 17 or 22, I really can't tell. She was slender, dark hair, curly but not frizzy, with a big and bright smile; engagingly cute despite one front tooth being a lot further forward and a bit overlapping the other. Initially I picked up on her insecurity, but with a spunkier side: she knows she's not a knockout, but she's not a dishtowel.

Somehow she knew exactly what style of shoes I was looking for, from my pathetic description. They didn't have them in my size or the color I wanted, so I told her it was ok, I could probably find them online cheaper anyway. But I told her, since she was so helpful, she still deserved her commission, so, how much is it?
"One percent."
"One percent of $69.99? That's like 70 cents."
"Don't worry about it."
"Oh come on now, you deserve the commission. You made the sale, the store just didn't support you. So, here's a buck. You're definitely worth at least a buck."
She laughed and tried not to take it, but I insisted, to make it funnier.
As soon as I started to walk away the cross-eyed manager started asking her what that was about.

Did I hit on her because I knew she was easy prey?, slash, I like to flirt with chicks who aren't super cute. I feel like, nobody else does, so why shouldn't I? Like a charity service. I'm very good at acting awestruck, like I just saw a jaw-dropping knockout when I first laid eyes on them. I can't take my eyes off them, and I let them catch me sneaking a peek as I walk out of the store or restaurant or wherever I encounter them. They blush, they smile, they beam, they're radiant. What's so bad about bringing a little sunshine into their lives? And if I do end up making them fall in love with me, like I said, they all say they're glad we had our time together even though it didn't last. Still, I keep finding myself chanting, "I'm just a terrible person."

I thought to myself, maybe I can come back without the wife and flirt with her, find some way to convince her I'm not married, and then I can sleep with her. It might be really fun finding out all her sexual idiosyncracies. Maybe she likes something that really turns me on. Maybe she's willing to do stuff that my current sexual outlet won't.

Younger girls or more inexperienced girls are so much fun. Not because I'm a pedophile - I'm not; the younger the girl, the less she turns me on - but because all the sensations are so new to them, that they get lost in the moment. They don't even realize where they are or what they're doing, they just melt into a moaning warm pile of writhing pleasure.

There's something to be said too for the experienced woman, since generally she knows exactly what it takes to make her come, and may have a better idea of what a guy generally likes. But with the inexperienced ones, it is such a turn-on seeing and hearing the pleasure they are experiencing. It's undeniably real. No pain necessary.

Cheesecake Factory

The wife wanted to eat there but the cute, thick black/latin hostess gave us a pager and said there'd be a 20 minute wait. I said "Ok, but are you lying? Is it actually going to be like 45 minutes?" She laughed. I could definitely get her.

We waited outside for them to buzz our pager. There were two very hot girls sitting there; the hotter of the two was definitely very spunky; she had on a fuzzy pink hat, something I have seen in exactly three porn movies by the way.

The one with the hat seemed to intentionally ignore me; she didn't even make that brief normal eye contact that most people, regardless of gender, do when you walk up and sit down within a few feet of them.


Was it because I was ok looking? Or because I was a total sleaze? The more I looked at her and the more she ignored me, the more it seemed to put me on the level of a slacker wannabe. What sort of guy would she give attention to? No-one? Some cocky, buffed, clean cut moron with stylish cookie-cutter clothes? Why am I not that guy? Is there something genetically wrong with me? Or did I just never play enough sports to become normal and coordinated and self-confident around snooty great-looking women?

On the way out

The mall was closing and two mall worker girls got into the car next to us in the parking lot. The wife was in the back seat and the windows are tinted so it looked like it was just me in the car. The girl on the passenger side looked at me a bit longer than just a cursory glance, and smiled at me. I smiled back. As we drove off in separate directions I took note of the make, model, and license plate of the car. Maybe I could come back another day at closing and better note the girls' uniforms, then come back again and find a reason to put myself where they work, and so on.

Dark Life

I saw some great shoes today, on a skinny, gorgeous girl walking outside the supermarket. They were suede and had very thin soles, which made her seem more elegant and catlike in her track pants and t-shirt. With the right jeans and shirt, they would look good on me. If I lost some weight. I had considered hitting on her, but I didn't have my game tight: wasn't dressed or smelling nice; had no second cell phone to pretend like it was my real cell in case she asked for my number instead of giving hers out; wasn't driving my Navigator, and the car I was driving was dirty; and I feel like my teeth aren't very white. I need to get them whitened. But first I need to have them cleaned. And to do that I really need to start flossing first, and use a dental pick to remove whatever plaque I can so I'm not a total slob for the dental hygienists. And to get the most out of the whitening I should start using this Sonic Care toothbrush my wife bought us. Two weeks of using it whitened the heck out of her teeth. Also I'm not feeling very fit lately. I bought some jeans 8 months ago or so, and already they barely fit. I have packed on some weight just by being my usual sedentary self and by I guess eating more calories than I burn. So lately I've been cutting back on what I eat, just eating enough to not be hungry. I'd like to exercise but it never seems to happen. The wife would be pissed if I went jogging or to the gym without her, and when she's gone I, I guess inevitably, get caught up in porn.

Is it just me or are the Europeans equally bad at making pizza as they are at making porn? Where's the cheese and tomato sauce for god's sake?

Funeral

We had a death in the family on my wife's side.

She's Latin so at the reception all the hotties in the extended family were checking me out. I would have nailed five or six of them. I kept my hand with my ring finger in my pocket as long as possible to prolong the flirting. When I was doing my flirty smile at a girl and got caught by people from my wife's family, or the girl's boyfriend, I made a point of then letting them see me use the same smile on a guy or an old lady, to try to fake them out.

One of them who looks exactly like my mistress really dug me. I am not surprised, since human behavior is very predictable. She was very skinny and young, with big wide-set eyes, tiny tits, small but incredibly round ass. Good lord what I'd have done to her.

My wife's cute cousin-once-removed was paying a lot more attention to me than usual. She's hot in a ghetto way, and the first two of her three kids were by some other guy than her current boyfriend, so you know she fucks. I get the feeling from her mannerisms that she'd be pretty hot in bed. Big shapely ass, nice tits, skin like coffee with a lot of milk, sexy smile. The way she does her makeup is pure ghetto: lipstick rimmed with darker eyeliner, eyebrows tweezed into thin arches and penciled darker, and permed hair. I don't like the look but that's no reason not to have sex with someone.

Observation

I've noticed I'm downloading so much porn that I can't even view it or enjoy it. I've been this way for a long time, I'm just figuring it out more and more.

Sure I'm driven by the desire to see terrific porn, but I'm driven more by the desire to not miss terrific porn that I could have gotten. For example, if I see a series of segments of a movie and one or more of them are really great, I'm compelled to get the entire series, so that someday when I do get around to viewing whatever I downloaded, I don't have any sadness, frustration and longing in case there was something super hot and I only downloaded one section of it.

Really I'm not so much orgasm-driven as I am stimulation-driven. You have an orgasm, and the whole thing is over. But when you're really turned on, it's exciting, and you can maintain that a lot longer than you can an orgasm.

Really the whole thing is about escapism. When I'm in my little porn world I can explore so many different directions every time, it's an adventure. The hours fly by, there are no annoyances from the outside world, and real life seems like far away and a long time ago- and scary.

When I finally stop surfing or perusing or organizing porn, I realize I was in an altered state and went on for hours longer than I should have - and that I almost went on for hours more than I did. When I'm in my porn world I'm happy with it being my entire life. But when I'm in the real world, I realize how limited and pathetic my porn world is and I hope I don't get dragged back into it that night.

About the real world being scary- I think I have some sort of weird agoraphobia. When I'm employed, every morning when I leave for work it's like being born. It gives me a stomach ache just having to wrench myself from my bed, to enter the world. Beginning the drive to work is almost as intimidating, and so is walking in the building for the first time. Human interaction, I'm so uncomfortable. Taking my first phone call is the same way.

But once I've crossed each of those hurdles, I can function normally without feeling sheepish about it, and I become extremely outgoing. I'm not scared of much, I'm brash and bold, I'll go anywhere and do anything.

The next morning it's back to square one.

Problem is, when I'm not employed, there's nowhere to go every morning, so I get deeper and deeper into my own little world. I become scared to go out, to go through that discomfort of the beginning of a conversation or of picking up the phone, and then once I've flaked out on people, I get scared to open my email to read their letters asking me what the fuck is up with me. It fucks up my life but how am I supposed to explain the truth?

Learned Student

When it came to cheating, I used to angle like crazy in my head, planning out every possible derivative of every what-if I could think of, on both my wife's part and my mistress'. My resting heart rate was racing, I was nervous...

Now it's so easy I barely give it any thought. I feel like a professional flight instructor in a tiny acrobatic plane, one of those people where you could put the plane into any kind of spin, and with a tug of the stick and a move of the flaps, they've got the plane straightened out and flying right. As amazing as it may sound, I don't even plan my dalliances much any more! Or my excuses to my mistresses as to why I can't spend the night or where I was, what I did, etc. I just know I can come up with some excuse they'll buy, pretty much off the top of my head.

Maybe my wife has given up asking, maybe she knows in the back of her head, maybe she doesn't care as much any more.

I really don't want to cheat. I'm just so greedy. I see these pretty girls and their beauty is the sweetest nectar. I just want to kiss their mouths, squeeze their breasts, violate them ten different ways (that's a Sixteen Candles reference for you), hear them moan...
I don't want to hurt my wife; I'm just such a fiend for it all.

The love is fun - fun, Hell... it's exhilarating - but when it fades, I maintain its façade only to maintain the relationship with the girl as an outlet for my sexual drive. And to postpone hurting her.

I feel sorry for the girls, too, don't get me wrong. I feel horrible about it, since they are such wonderful and innocent people inside. But I can't stop myself.

At the very least, they always tell me I treated them better than anyone ever had, and made them feel better than anyone ever had. And they all say they are glad we had our time together, and they wouldn't wish it away.

Girls seem to like bittersweet pleasure. They like the rollercoaster, and they like movies and books and relationships like that.

Me, I can't stand it. I'm so weak that I don't want any pain, any sadness, any worry. Just give me movies or books or experiences that make me feel better without the gut punch.

I really don't know whether there is something wrong with me (about the cheating) or whether I am just a self-indulgent rogue, with no self control.

When I target a new girl part of me screams "No!" and pities her. That part of me hopes and prays I won't do it, so I won't hurt her. But the other part of me strategizes what my next move is in order to snare her.

Fuck Me

Jesus Christ, I must be demented or something. Stuck here watching my life go by while I'm jerking off in this cell.

Ridin' Buddies

My penis and my self-loathing are my constant companions
The three amigos
Onward, men!
More p-word to conquer!