It started today with a few sexualized comments after my 2:30 meeting in Hollywood. And what initially seemed harmless allowed me to plough forward into what can only be described as the bowel movements of sex addiction. For some reason, today, I lost all concept of time, lost control of where my mind went, and realized that I haven’t really been in control of the thoughts floating through anyway. And as always, realizations such as todays must be a good sign, Jilly Beans says recovery comes in waves, and I think yesterday was the crash on the beach, while today the ocean is being pulled back out toward its deepest darkest depths, and I, stuck somewhere in the rip tide, am trying to swim sideways, to get out.
The sexualized conversation wasn’t even anything big. I mean, by no means was it overtly sexual, wait, I take that back. I’ve been keeping a log of all the sexualized conversations I create on my phone, so that I may bring it to therapy, and analyze. I will rewrite what I had written in the notes section.
Mr. Man I happen to be speaking with: “I’ve got to go through a couple more men’s before I can sponsor.”
Me: My therapist and sponsor say I shouldn’t go through any more men.”
The next part of the conversation went as follows. We were talking about a Sunday BBQ
Mr. Man again: “She told me to bring the meat.”
Me: “hehehehe, you said meat. meat meat meat meat meat.”
It’s certainly not because I’m horny. And not because I was thinking about sex, or even having sex with this man I’m in conversation with, I just felt I had nothing else to say, no other way to feel, and tried to make light of the situation by creating sexual undertones, albeit they were more overtones, which let me escape from what is really on my mind. Because yes, there are a few things on my mind tonight, and I’m not in quite as lovely a place as yesterday.
All my old buddies went to the Playboy Mansion tonight for fun, drinks, and quality time at the monkey cage. No, not the grotto, the monkey cage. And I fucking love that monkey cage. I could stand there drinking all night, flirting with every man or woman who passes, and making funny faces as Hef’s monkeys. I started seeing the buzz going on twitter, and for some reason felt as though I am missing out on something huge, although every time I end up at the mansion I just want to go home. I don’t want to flirt with the men there, I don’t want to swim in the icky sticky grotto, I just want to hide in the back and hang out with the monkeys, who never say anything directly to me, and occasionally throw some poo at each other for fun.
And every time I go, I get pissy because you have to wait for the stupid fucking bus to take you back down the stupid fucking hill, and chances are I will either make out with someone on the bus, throw up, or fall asleep. And once the bus gets back to it’s birth place, the storage place of cars ready to take home drunken playboy mansion partiers, I stumble off, try to find my car, throw up once or twice more, one eyed drunk drive myself home, barely make it into my bed, and wake up the next morning not remembering anything past the monkey cages, the one place in the whole fucking mansion where I truly enjoyed myself. It’s only when friends tell me the ride home was a little scary, me driving with one hand covering the left eyeball so that the right one doesn’t crisscross and my brain doesn’t go squiggly, and even then, I’d laugh it off saying “that’s the way to roll yo”. But that isn’t the way to roll.
The way to roll was and is like tonight, home from a nice dinner with Jew, speeding down the 101S at 80mph because go ahead and fucking pull me over. I’m not shitfaced, and I sure as shit ain’t ridin dirty. So go ahead Mr. Cop. Pull. Me. Over.
I catch myself thinking this exact thing, and testing the limitations of the road. Lets check out twitter while doing 85. Perhaps write on somebody’s wall. Hmm……New song.
At De Soto, I put on Coldplay, Viva la Vida, and suddenly I’m back in Paris, wandering the streets, heading toward the Arc de Triumph, walking along cobblestone lined with yellow and orange leaves, kicking some as I head to nowhere, but to somewhere. And just as soon as I hit the Arc, the song changes, and I’m flying back down the 101S, and it’s onto Violet Hill, a song I’d play over and over on the way home from an X-lovers house, who also lives up the 101, I’d drive down that freeway at 8 or 9am, singing at the top of my lungs
Bury me in armor
When I’m dead and hit the ground
A love back home unfolds
If you love me
Won’t you let me know?
And I knew every morning driving down that freeway, not speeding because the traffic is always congested at that hour, those hours, that my heart felt congested at the thought of wanting to know if he loved me, or loved me not. The petals from flowers ever so gently plucked and left to fall, with the leaves lining the Parisian streets. And I would always get coffee around the corner from his apartment, smoke a cigarette or two, because I hadn’t fully started smoking again, and was trying to play it cool, which I can never do, but wasn’t smoking in the car, so a few before I hit the traffic filled freeway and then a few once I got home.
I don’t want to be a soldier
Who the captain of some sinking ship
Would stow, far below
So if you love me
Why’d you let me go?
I would text him how great the night before was, a flirty smiley face, one with a winking eye, and no nose, and he’d text back in agreement, and I’d slam on the breaks, so preoccupied with the previous night and still in fantasy that I’d almost hit the car ahead of me. And the frustration of wanting to know, or be let go would carry me from Agora down to Sherman Oaks, and I’d want another night, and another and another until there were no more, until he didn’t want me or until I hated him for still wanting me. I’d realized I’d gone three miles, almost hit five cars, and still didn’t know how I felt about him. More than a half hour had passed, and I felt further behind than when I began.
But reality strikes with cold hands and I’m still on the 101S, but it’s 11:30pm not 8:30am, my exit, I’m off the freeway and turning down my street. It’s a years time since those mornings where I wanted love from him, the mornings where I knew I felt something similar but more like loves little brother, or sister, not the full fledged unadulterated version of what love can be, only something close. Loves next door neighbor. And I’m grieving the loss of someone I never had, a feeling that didn’t quite match up, and a lust that wasn’t allowed to blossom into love because I stopped it, we stopped it, and can’t help but feel this wave, this tidal wave of emotion must pass, and I pray to gravity it passes quickly.