Diary of a s*x Addict

December 9-1

December 9

My morning starts with wanna watch me be a pig, get bred by you and drink ur piss. It’s a text from, well, from him. The text-men are the toughest to keep track of. There are no pictures and no names. But this one, who’s been texting for two months, always wants bareback breeding and groups and arms up his ass. I wonder if he’s really, as his profile says 38 worked out hung thick or maybe he’s just a lonely old fat man dying of some horrible disease living on these text fantasies to feed himself.

I get up and wander through the dark. My studio faces the back of the building, a blessing because of the quiet, a mild curse because there is no light. I don’t mind the dark because the tomb-like feeling comforts me.

Groggy, I feel hollowed out, and imagine a pretty serial killer snuck in as I slept and gutted me then filled my chest with scented saw dust before he sewed me up and covered the scars with Max Factor make-up concealer. These are typical very-early morning thoughts. I don’t mind them. As I come to, I slowly recall a mean little Latino teen who couldn’t be f****d hard enough, but then wonder if I dreamt that.

Two large glasses of coffee over ice and a shower and I feel better. I hang a miniscule rag doll and a toy truck with eyes on the advent calendar for December 8th and 9th and start my day. For a half second, as I turn away, I think the rag doll is laughing at me.

I look particularly smooth and chiseled this morning post shower in my Ikea mirror. I am inspired to take my morning pictures and update my online photos at Manhunt and Grindr. I can get a head start and catch the early morning cruisers, because tonight will have to succeed or else...

Or else, what? Flip headfirst into the black hole and dissolve, I suppose.

Contemplating this at the mirror, I pause to realize how horrified I am to get any closer. I don’t like to scrutinize myself. It makes me feel old. My skin has been damaged by the sun and I have too many hateful freckles.

I take a step closer, feeling reckless. Another. So far, so good. Three quick steps. Finally two more and I am in it, right on it: The face. The freckled 38-year-old forehead, the crow’s feet, the slight loosening of the jaw. I run back to safety where it’s all about my man t**s and my 29-inch waist. I study my image from five feet back and am worthwhile again, one sexy fucker.

I shut my eyes and let my shoulders fall way, way, way down for the first time in months. To make this moment seem more real, I say out loud to the mirror “Can you ever get to who you really are?” I look a bit longer at my long pale perfect nude body in my Ikea mirror, saying “Who the f**k are you? Why don’t you just cut the crap and find out?”

There is a lull and nothing comes to me. That little rag doll on the advent calendar is glaring wickedly my way. I want to stick a pin through her eye. This shitty line of thinking sucks. I need to get on with the day. I quickly masturbate to a grainy video clip on my iPhone of a supposedly straight Middle-Eastern geek slobbering expertly over a really large disembodied c**k.

Temporarily relieved, I dress for work, pulling together a really nice outfit to perk me up since I’m beginning to feel the impact of very little sleep. I also want to look pulled together because I’m making a pit stop on my way to work to visit Auntie Flora. I see her once a week. She’s quite old and could quite possibly croak at any minute.

As I leave the house, I decide that today I will come up with ten things I want to do before I die. I am certain that constant anonymous s*x is not going to be one of them.