Journal 5.7.17

How the memories blindside me: that sticky-slick feminine wetness; licking the sweat off her olive skin; hair in our mouths; the knowledge that Trevor could hear the sound of the vibrator and the prioritization of our own pleasure over decency or consideration. Trevor could always wear headphones… That was our rationalization.

Is it wrong of me to miss the sex more than I miss the woman?

She said I made her feel like all she was good for was sex. I never felt like sex was this banal physical urge that needed to be satisfied. To me, it was a radical body acceptance. It was the time when I felt the closest to her, the most loved, the happiest.

Endorphins are some crazy shit, man.

More than one person close to me has suggested that I might be a sex addict. I took a sex addict test that I found on a “sex and love addiction” treatment center’s website, and I scored two or three times higher than the average gay sex addict.

{I always used to tell Tim I was a sex addict. That was my excuse for dragging him into the so-called bedroom–he didn’t even sleep there. It was just an air mattress on the floor and a bunch of his mom’s stuff that she didn’t know what to do with. He slept on the couch–but that was my excuse for dragging him into the bedroom because he was a meth addict, and he knew what addiction meant, and I just NEEDED to get naked, to have my cunt licked and caressed and fingered and pleasured to he point of orgasm, no matter the shame I had to bear afterwards, no matter the disgusting, degrading things I had to do in return, no matter the consequences (like failing all my classes because of my abundance of absences I accumulated from skipping class so many times to sleep with him] I NEEDED that physicality, or I felt like I would die.}

I don’t want to be a sex addict. I can deal with being a drug addict and an alcoholic, but sex addiction? That just makes me dirty, slutty, a whore. The truths I try to avoid.


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