(August 16, 2007)
I've always been sexually fucked-up. Is there a more apt phrase than that? "Fucked up."
I once tried to analyze my sexual problems. I quickly concluded I suffered from a combination of virtually every sexual dysfunction, block, and perversion known to man. So I was fucked.
Any mistake you could make, I made them. The fool who fell in love with a whore? That would be me. The sap who tried to give his most tender, vulnerable heart to a cruel, mean, castrating bitch and then said "Ouch"? You're talking to him. The sap who tried to "save" a mentally insane speed tweaker who was hell-bent on destroying herself? You're talking to him.
The short story is: I suffered from extreme sexual obsession in combination with equally extreme sexual blocks and repressions. Let me describe it this way. One night I was hanging out with a bunch of street people atop these steps overlooking the plaza. One of the street people's male dogs was desparate to get to a bitch-in-heat that was strutting her stuff down on the plaza. How that dog strained and surged against that leash. His constant whines of frustration and agony were relentless. That dog could not be pacified. Nothing could take his mind off the biological urge to score some doggy booty.
I could relate. What annoys me is: people regularly tell me I'm on a "self-punishment" trip, that I'm "doing it to myself." Funny, I don't remember constructing the invisible leash that held me back. I don't remember creating the complex series of psychological actions and reactions that just seemed imbedded in my psyche from the word go.
There was one woman I was "in love" with for 13 years. A total bitch. To be fair, having somebody like me direct their obsessive vibrations towards them for 13 years is enough to bring out the bitchiness in anybody.
I'm not proud of this, but some nights, during the peak of my madness, I would ride my bike down to her house at 2 in the morning. I'd camp out in the vacant lot across from her bedroom window. Obsessively wondering if she was in there. And with whom. Sometimes I'd wait for an hour, until a car pulled up and she got out and went back into her house. Alone. "whew!" Finally I could go home. Who can explain that? Well, theres 6 billion human beings on the planet, and I guess if the drive wasn't relentless, we wouldn't all be here. Nature is always flinging its seeds around. And maybe we males are just helpless servants of the biological imperative.
Ahh, the things we do for love. Like walking in the rain and the snow when there's nowhere to go, and gunning down a room full of people, and hanging ourselves from the nearest tree. Call me romantic.
I fell "in love" with 5-and-a-half women (I'm still not sure about one of them). Each one of them was absolutley beautiful. And each one seemed to take one more chunk out of my soul.
The last one was this beautiful, crazed little waif of a teenage runaway who hated virtually everything and everyone in this world. Including me. Alas, my love was not strong enough to overcome her desire to slam huge quantities of pure chrystal meth into her nervous system until she was completely mentally and physically deranged.
Now, I'm 50 years old. And I look back at the whole grand passion play of my youth with feelings of . . . well, it changes by the moment: feelings of regret, disgust, dismay at my foolishness, and this weary sense of it all having slipped away from me somehow. . .
