It has to start somewhere. And this is long over due. I guess that this is any exercise. An attempt to get it out, find a voice, stop the constant self editing. The story of my life is interesting. And I need to get it out, make it history. Make it the past. I have finally come to realize that this is the best way to get it out, make it out and gone away. Not stockpiled in journals or hard drives. Not here anymore.
This is my first attempt at getting normal. Healing. Recovering. I have been living in Plato's cave, living a fantasy. And it is time to open my eyes.
Today marks the second week I have been sober from alcohol, third week sober from marijuana, and 4 weeks sexually sober. I am a sex addict. I am an alcoholic, I am a codependant, I am an addict. I like this sobriety, it looks good on me. I feel trippy. I am starting to feel a new high. Not that I'm high on life, cause I'm right now too busy analyzing to start living. I am feeling High on recovery, addicting myself to the obsession of healing.
I have been having sex longer than I can remember. It is my first memory. I have been masturbating for as long as I can remember. I remember rubbing my penis so much and so often I would break the skin and break the scabs, cause I couldn't stop. I don't remember who taught me. I don't ever want to know. How could that memory really help? Will that help the healing? Do I need to confront him or her in order to heal? Doesn't seem logical that I would need that. It is the past. And most likely it is someone who is still in my life, some I love, and shows me love. Someone who made a mistake. Someone who was human.
I remember blowing my brother, but somebody taught me. I remember my cousins playing show and tell. I remember they got mad when I wouldn't show them. I remembered liking it. I already knew all about this game. It was old hat. I remember masturbating in preschool. It was on the playground,after the bell rang. Everyone was lined up, but I was high atop the pole clinging on, rubbing my cock. The teacher came and yelled to me, screamed to come down. I wouldn't, it felt to good. I was screaming for help. My subconscious was smarter than I was. I was only 4. I'm too hard on myself sometimes.
My mother couldn't protect me. I think she didn't want to see. It embarrassed her.
I have always liked being an object. It was an elaborate sexual fantasy for me, as a child. I remember playing house with my dolls as a kid. I loved Alvin and the Chipmunks. I was Dave, I was their dad. But I was a hot sexy stud and all the chicks wanted me, and I was chained up like the prince in Sleeping Beauty, but naked and hairy, and sucked on and licked. I was only 4.
I am smart. I am creative. I am imaginiative. Resourceful, ingenuitive, kind, friendly, Very funny. I hate being labeled these things, I hate being referred to as these things. My bosses call me a genius, my friends call me Hilarious, my family calls me loving. I hate it. I am hot! I eat a mean piece of ass. I suck it just right. I fuck for hours, and hit all the right spots. This is who I am. Guys call me sweet, they don't get called back. Guys call me nice, they get shown the door. I am a power plow and that is it. Call me if you want to get fucked, and go tell your friends how hot I am.
