Diary of a s*x Addict

December 8-3

It’s a difficult night. The wi-fi internet connection I raffishly steal from my neighbor just flaked out in the middle of a porn clip from Straight Boys Suck for Cash leaving me with a handful of lube, in utter anguish. With no wi-fi, I have to rely on the crappy internet connection on my iPhone for all of my net needs.

I normally do a triple-threat hunt to save time. This includes two online s*x sites, Grindr and Manhunt, along with the phone s*x line. I must have someone over by 11 P.M. and be done by midnight so I can be up at 7 A.M. to go to the gym and keep my man t**s hard. Timing is crucial.

The phone s*x line is the quickest and the most insane. The changing voices of the recorded messages of the men on the line sometimes frighten me. I skip through the messages randomly, waiting for a special one to yank me under. There are odd ones, like: “I just slammed crystal, I’m eleven inches and he’s tied up next to me,” or “I’m wearing girl’s panties,” then a suspiciously young voice saying “I’ll do anything you want and be your b***h sir.” I often nod off, the voices endless, just a run-on of desperate pleas.

But I don’t stop. I wade through “suck my feet I can pay you,” and “I’m straight acting and my girl’s at the store,” then “I eat s**t I’m in my rim chair,” and finally, gently “I’d really like to date.”

The emotional ride I go through as I listen to these voices can be intense. I’m thrilled and terrified by the rape fantasies, disgusted by the scat descriptions but mostly saddened by the young voice with (I imagine) soft green eyes, the one that says he’d like to date and meet nice guys. I think he’s mentally retarded to think he can find a real date on a phone s*x line.

The phone line is chaos, but delivers men quite often. Of every ten or so, there’s actually someone within a mile radius who’s ready to f**k. For the record, I only have safe s*x, which is, in gay terms, no anal s*x without a condom and no c*m swallowing. My motto: if I stay negative and safe, I get more mind-numbing, black hole avoiding s*x. Being positive would really cut down on the possible number of hook-ups.

My other two hunting formats are online. Manhunt is a pic-and-click web-site of c**k and ass shots and pointed descriptions about lusty desires. It’s old school, like a super jaded version of match.com with long profiles, lots of pictures, and cute categories like ‘top’, ‘bottom’, ‘daddy’, ‘exhibitionist’, ‘gym rat’. The success ratio is limited but not impossible.

The last and latest is Grindr. It’s an iPhone application that labels men by their proximity, like Bob is 180 feet from you, is on the down low, and likes to get spanked. The Grindr icon on the iPhone is yellow with a bizarre skeleton mask challenging you to sign in. Once signed in, it’s all sort of cheerful. The iPhone screen glows and makes it feel, in the darkness of my bed at least, otherworldly. The Grindr screen is divided into tiny thumbnail picture squares of available men, with sixteen pics filling the screen. You can scroll down with a touch, and view lots and lots of men. Pics range from a close up of an eyeball or a plump chest, to a crotch or the Empire State Building. One guy has a shot of a bowling alley lane and calls himself ‘Blue Balls’.

When you tap a man’s pic, you can text-chat back and forth toward a hook-up. Grindr has the youngest, sexiest, flakiest and most confused men, and causes the worst eye strain. In the dark, flipping the screen of tiny men’s faces up and down, I always think of a summer lawn, under the moon, watching lightning bugs blur past with their innate ability to exist then die in rapid blinks of light and dark. I’m not sure why. I think it has something to do with being aimless and un-tethered. There are moments of calm and frail hope. I feel less alone in the dark with Grindr.

Tonight, with the free wi-fi not cooperating, I’m lying on my pull-out sofa naked and lubed, net porn dead, dealing with the phone line and logging onto Grindr on my tiny iPhone. It’s already 10:58 P.M. and I wonder where Bing might be.

I manically swap from Grindr to the phone line with no luck until nearly midnight, then fade out with the phone in my hand, its screen light slowly dimming as I see the edges of my sexless, black hole emerge. Something that looks like either a crippled hand, or a gnarled and rotting tree branch, reaches up to pull me under.

I sleep.

* * * *

In the dissolving dream there is a warm and cozy box.

I’ve just woken in my pitch black, hot and lush studio under my super-thick quilted Macy’s down comforter, sweaty. My iPhone is quacking.

In this deep-woods dark place, under my feather stuffed down comforter hearing the phone quacking, I’m feeling very safe, steeped in some ethereal wilderness. I catch fragments of the box dream as it fades. I fit inside the box easily. It is cardboard but somehow the cardboard feels soft like fabric or skin. There is a sound of hissing, running water.

The iPhone stops quacking. I’m depressed, thinking I just missed the hottest possible trick calling in late, just a block away, with a magnificently huge c**k. The phone quacks anew and I grab it only vaguely acknowledging that I have to be up for work in a few hours.

It’s not a voice I recognize so I grunt, hoping to gather information. He says he’s 20, Latino, eight inch cut c**k, from the Bronx and really really really wants to get f****d tonight. I give him my address then crawl back under my comforter hoping the box dream comes back. The phone call, though, woke me to the point of arousal so instead of drifting back toward sleep I am edging away from it and I realize dawn is arriving along with a flaky 20-year-old cocoa colored big-dicked bossy bottom from the Bronx. I consider popping a melatonin herbal sleeping pill.

The buzzer blares and I let him up wondering how the hell he got from the Bronx with such lightning speed, then vaguely recall him mentioning he was at a party, presumably very nearby.

I stand naked at my door in the dark. The tension is rising. I grip my p***s, tugging it to life with one hand, suddenly fearful it’s way too small and sleepy. I use my other hand to lift the door’s peep hole so I can get a glance at my visitor before I let him in. If he’s, let’s says, disfigured or over 60 or holding a butcher knife, I can always stand stock still and quiet and hope he goes away. These moments, waiting for a trick to climb the four flights of stairs, I always feel a building exhilaration, titillation and also something like innocence.

It can’t be real innocence since I’m such a jaded s*x monster but there is a sense of discovery, and even, somewhere in my mind as I listen to the footsteps crawling up the last flight in the dead quiet stairway, a soft little fantasy from way back that this could be the one, it could be love.

I can see him through the peephole and he is exactly as he described himself. I sigh and let him in, knowing the best part is somehow already over.

* * * *

He’s lying on his stomach on my pull-out sofa and it’s very dark and he is very black. I don’t believe he’s Latin, maybe a mix. There are always lies with hook-ups. It’s expected. He is truthfully as young as he claimed, I feel that in his voice, and though he’s unshaven and has a mild inner-tube of flab around his waist, his ass is very plump and pretty. He keeps on his plastic eyeglasses and waits as I hover.

“So,” he says this with a long drawn out emphasis on the ‘s’ which makes him sound like a bored little boy, “Why aren’t you f*****g me?”

His voice sounds even younger, and I wonder if he’s twenty or some high school kid living in a ratty housing project with a crackwhore mother. And this all somehow excites me, so I finally get hard enough to lasso the condom on and get it inside him. He props his head up on his arms and in the same monotone of boredom, though I am now pumping as hard as I can, he says, “Can’t you do it harder?”

Again I imagine his mother, some fat angry crackwhore who says things like that to him, like “Why can’t you be a real man?” or “You are a worthless faggot.” These are things I’ve seen in films about poor abused children living in poverty who end up going to a college where someone like Sandra Bullock teaches them to read. I pump harder and harder. But he just sighs and finally says “If you came you can take it out. I have to go.”

I did not c*m, but I gladly withdraw and realize he is in charge of this scene. He gets up and dresses slowly, never looking at me. I try to prop myself up on my elbows in the dark to look masculine or cool or relaxed.

“I’m glad you came,” I lie.

“Yeah, I’m sure you are,” he says.

He leaves. There is a long, slow lapse where I vacantly wait for dawn to come to me but the night seems stuck. I take another melatonin pill and sleep, but I don’t dream about the box.