How thrilling to be in my 50s and still battling a variety of addictive impulses. I’m building a prose cottage here in Facetiousville so bare with me.
When I successfully got off the Peruvian marching powder in the late 80s, that involved divorcing myself from everyone in the lifestyle. It worked.
Even though my sex addiction is sapping less of me than it has in decades I’m at a particular virulent stage of wanting to act out. As I write this, I’m prepared to drive my gas-guzzling SUV through virtually any nearby wall to get at one of my lovelies.
And unlike leaving behind the whole world of Columbian breakfast flakes, I’ve got my partners all quite nearby and the lines are open. Kelly, my white trash stripper turned waitress has been texting me throughout the morning concerning the various types of assaults she would like to conduct on my privates and man cave. Stacy, my Domme-in-a-thong, has broken up with her boyfriend and wants to meet so I can help her with this fall’s “Stacy Wants to Be Naughty Scholarship Fund” as I so charmingly termed it. And my new pre-Reubensesque lady that I recently chronicled is available for cbt and exquisite tease and denial.
Wisely, I’m using online porn and the occasional dalliance with phone sex to keep the expensive shit at bay. (remember…author still residing in Facetiousville)
Sex addiction is exhausting and it takes so much of your emotional capital. I’m tired my friends. I’m tired.
Peace to us all, but most of all to me this September morning. I try to always work in a grin for you good folks…just not happening today.
