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     I am haunted by the closing moments of Mike Nichols’ “Carnal Knowledge.” Jack Nicholson’s character is getting a blowjob from a hooker but first requires her to ritualistically say something about his mighty sexual prowess or something close to that kind of pathetic (but hot if it works for you) scenario.

     When I saw that as a young man and followed the arc of your basic randy college age whore dog guy to that particular disquieting conclusion, I mentally muttered something about weirdness and went on…Now some 30 years on, I get it. I’m in part, that guy. Boy, that’s a real victory.

     When I bailed from my first marriage in my late 20s, I started on about a 10 to 15 year of what I thought at the time was an impressive blitzkrieg of womanizing. I was a ladies man! In hindsight, golly gee, it was a fab launching pad into a more complex and dispiriting sexual addiction. After I blew up a few relationships that could have been long term  and fulfilling, I found myself emotionally wounded and scarred. I’d broken my own damned heart with a vengeance and left some neat women in my wake. I had fully marched into my own personal kingdom of Dumb Fuckdom!

     From that point on, I made sure my depredations were with strippers, dommes and those lovely working girls that co-inhabit that world. Costly, but allegedly emotionally safe. We addicts get to know the real cost of that.

     My little non-beauty school dropout, Cheyenne, and I are going to meet for drinks. She is my aforementioned Emily Dickinson of the naughty text and other gifted turns of phrase. I mentioned she should bring her molestation gear in case we decide to get frisky afterwards in some sort of bdsm quirkiness.

     Cash is usually involved so I went from boyish anticipatory gee whiz to….ah fuck, we’re in a B rate “Carnal Knowledge.”

     Of course, all of this is fictional, and I’m merely a guy who loves his wife, works his recovery on the high wire daily and suddenly realizes that some days it doesn’t look like there’s a fucking net down there!

    Peace to us all, my brothers and sisters.

     As the years have rolled by my kinkiness has deepened like a river full of sexual sludge. Or perhaps it flows like the rush of eros-addled BDSM Bass heading upstream to spawn in a placid pool of perversion…

     Bottom line, the acts I would reallllllllly like to indulge in involve those things that I think might no. 1, kill you or no. 2, lead to an open and forthwright conversation with your wife about this new STD you’ve contracted and perhaps given her. Immediately after which, she cradles you in her arms and jams a fork in the back of your neck and starts vigorously trying to sever your spine or at least make putting on a dress shirt chafe.

     I remember the first time I looked through a microscope in 8th or 9th grade. I saw those squirming entities and I immediately developed low grade OCD on cleanliness. Later on, as I read about Howard Hughes and his mania vis a vis germs, my first thought was…dude…how sensible! So, combine the two and as my sexual addiction took full flower, I was hobbled. (not in the bdsm sense, which might actually be cool but in the metaphysical and logistical sense…)

     If I stick this there and let it become exposed to that….the being that is moi may die a hideous and prolonged cessation of life dance. I’m still appalled that I’m not immortal. Althought I think my dog and I might actually live forever. We’re neater than most folks. Then the actual acts themselves, that in my head stirred my other head, left me going…my tongue is actually going to be placed in that particular orifice….ewwww.

     So, it leaves my fascination with cuckoldry on the mental meltdown shelf. It gets me thrashing when I am taunted with it…..but in terms of clean-up detail after the fact, I’m back looking in that microscope going, damn…if it would all just stop wiggling. And as a fluffer…there again…pretty hot in my ricocheting thoughts….but let me get lab results first, second and perhaps every minute and a half to put my mind at ease.

     And finally, the Olympus of woo hoo tease and denial scenarios…ass worship. In grand concept, parting those lovely cheeks and diving in to clean up my leavings or those of someone else or just rimming for the grand giggles of it…oh my god! I’m wide-eyed and smiling just doing the pondering. But offered the posterior of a number of nubile lasses that are tripping through my brain right now…I’m looking at my WWHD bracelet. Mr. Hughes would back peddle, grab a kleenex and dab at imaginary microscopic globules of demon somethings.

     So to my science teacher, Mr. V and to the man who brought us the Spruce Goose, a big thank you. I may have been robbed of some actual experiences….but I’m not hauling around any virulent hangnail from hell “thangs” in my little ol’ Llano Estacado personal eco-system.