Isn’t that cute, he thinks I’m a whore!

Posted on June 19, 2009


Beautiful day, walking, writing, driving to Jilly Beans and having her still in a meeting unavailable for my session. This is not a problem, not really in the mood to be fixed right now.

……..8 hours later…….

I had to sit on this thought. The desire to be fixed. This isn’t a reasonable request is it? An unreasonable notion at best? The idea that with each therapy session I attend I am one step closer to being….perfect? What a terribly beautiful word. What an immaculate design. Utterly impossible to obtain, and yet at the tip of our tongues with each breath. Perfection. Ha.

I heard via grapevine a conversation that pertained to me, and to getting my phone number. It went something like this.

Him1: So, let me get her number.

Him2: No. She is very serious in her recovery. She has 74 days and she isn’t going to fuck it all off for you.

Him1: She would too! She can’t think about anything but dick, obviously she’ll fuck me.

Him2: HA! She would never fuck you.

Him1: She’s a pornstar and a sex addict, she’ll fuck anybody.

Him2: Anybody but you. And anybody 74 days ago. Now, it’s no one. She’s almost a nun.

Him1: A nun that might whore it out?

Him2: I feel like vomiting. You still can’t have her number.

I heard this conversation and laughed. A nun that might whore it out a little? Hmm….what a concept. Yeah, not so much. But it’s words like these that make me want to invest in baseball bats and buckets to clean up large amounts of blood. The pornstar comment I can understand, because if you have a camera crew, a guy holding a c-light and a PA to clean up baby wipes, I probably would have fucked you. But thinking I’ll fuck you just because I’m a sex addict? Talk about misconception.

The destructive behavior I participate in is very precise. Very….robotic. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Being a sex addict does not mean I can’t help but fuck every single person that crosses my path. It means that the people I do fuck are fucked without intimacy. Without sincere pleasure. It could be a man, a robot, or a piece of plastic, the noises and responses are all the same. The thoughts in my head are all the same. Most the time I’m thinking of my taxes or how I’m really going to enjoy the cigarette after. Not very often am I actually in the moment. The moment ceases to exist. There is only before. And after.

This Him1 would never have an after, only before, and that’s what drives him crazy. With my 75th day of sobriety, that’s what makes me laugh. My laughter before has transferred from the laughter I had felt after. I don’t know quite what that means. But I’ll figure it out, sometime soon.

Saw Mr. Cute tonight. He looked very cute. I told him his hat looks nice on his cranium. Why am I so awkward? Why have I no awesome game left without my awesome abilities to seduce, abuse and cast aside? At what point do I get to hit on somebody and not feel like  retard? Is there a specific date? Because I’d like to set one.

I suppose that’s the recovering perfectionist in me.

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Posted in: Good Days