:May 25, 1968:
Porn on the laptop before bed has become routine these days; a nightcap or a warm cup of milk (no pun intended) before fading off into a lonely, dreamless slumber.
Here’s my problem though. I have no shame in putting myself to sleep by showing myself who is boss or in watching complete strangers have ridiculous sex on a computer screen . I do, however, take issue with this thing that is called the “money shot,” the final price to be paid by a 29 year-old “ teen virgin.”
Every time I end up feeling dirty and used and seeing it on a nightly basis makes me question whether or not there is any decency left in my soul. The mere fact that I feel guilty about this situation tells me that there must be a snippet of hope, of faith, of life, at the very least, hanging on if not with both hands, then by a thread. At the very least.
This knowledge keeps me from swearing off self-abuse.
So, when exactly did this behavior become de rigueur and why? Is it thrilling? At no point in my sexual life has this type of behavior seemed the proper and just thing to do. I am only speaking for myself here. I realize that lots of people probably do this, the pulling out at the last second and the frenzied jerking off on your partners face. It is just something I have never ever been compelled to do.
Yet every night I see it.
I am a firm supporter of the notion that I would never ask anyone to do something that I was not capable and willing to do myself. Regardless of the fact that I am not actually asking these girls to do this and that I don’t get anything at all out of the facial, and that I sadly have no immediate plans on quitting porn, this tells me that I should experience a milky baptism myself.
I know, I could make the same argument for triple penetrations and fistings, but these are easy to avoid therefore I don’t see them. I am only compelled to pony up and experience this one element of porno. All that other shit I will leave to the bukkake and gang bang fanbase.
Let them exorcise their own demons.
Now how to go about this? Of course, I wasn’t about to go find some muscular, freakishly endowed douchebag to drop a load on my face, nor was I feeling like it would be acceptable to ask one of the roommates to jack one out on my head. So, my only real option was to do it myself…
[ed.- sadly, or fortunately, the entry ends here as does the diary.]
Showing posts with label sad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sad. Show all posts
23.2.07
Date Night and Unrealistic Crushes
It has become a habit that every Thursday I take myself out on a date to the Laurelhurst theater and see a $3 movie, eat a slice of pizza and drink a (baby) pitcher of Pabst (the blood of Little Baby Jesus Spider Monkey) (another story in itself. Just know that Joseph and that one Wise Man from Tunisia lost a lot of blood in the manger that night).
Anyway, my date night came about primarily because Thursday nights is when my four roommates and a few of their friends stay up until 3 AM playing Dungeons and Dragons and drinking beer. On temperate nights they indulge in the separate garage, and on cold nights, REALLY cold nights they play in the living room.
I am glad that they have this hobby and that they enjoy themselves. That said, I do not understand... at all. I had figured that the Tom Hanks made for TV movie had successfully put a nail through the head of the D & D movement back in the day.
I was wrong.
So, rather than hide in my room listening to people yell about arrow hits and chasing errant 20-sided die across the hardwood floor, I have started going out. It’s a good excuse for me to get out of the house, actually, and treat myself to something other than the work/home/nap/surf the net for Ukranian porn cycle that I have fallen into.
So, the D & D is the main reason I have started these auto-dates, but another reason, if I am to be honest, is that, well, I am single, so I am going out with myself in the hopes of getting myself drunk and taking advantage of myself.
I am without morals these days.
But not really. It’s not like I’d throw myself out into the cold, all naked and confused post-orgasm and slide $20 under the door for myself to take a cab home. No, I’d cuddle myself, nuzzle the back of my neck with my nose and I’d spoon me through a cold and anonymous night.
I would cook myself some breakfast and/or a cup of coffee in the morning if I so desired and give a hug and a thanks and depending on how things went say something like,
“Maybe I’ll see you around,” or
“You know, if you get the hankering, I’ll be saving a place in my bed for you tonight as well,” or
“If you leave I will kill myself in a truly horrendous manner,” or
“If I ever see you again I may be tempted to kick you in the neck,” or
“Sorry about last night. The ol’ Brewer’s Droop. You understand, right? It wasn’t you. It was me. It was just that I met you late on in the night and I really had no intention of going home with anyone. No, honestly. Had I even suspected, even for a moment, that something like this was going to happen I would have been drinking orange juice all night.”
Anyway, last night I went to see Stranger than Fiction with Will Farrell and Maggie Gyllenhaal. It was a cute film; tender. A quirky love story. I liked it and it may get added to my list of best love movies of all time (along with Punch Drunk Love, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Lost in Translation).
So, I was sitting there and, this doesn’t happen often, I totally fell for Maggie Gyllenhaal. I thought she was completely adorable in Secretary, but now... I was smitten. Utterly distracted, I couldn’t even keep up the witty banter I was running with me on my date. I dropped the ball.
Her smile, her laugh, her eyes, her weird-shaped head... she is totally cute. Stunning. I envy Peter Sarsgaard, and that Deadly Sin will no doubt land me in hell, but is worth it.
As I say, my celebrity crushes are few and far between. My first was during puberty, thereby excusable, and it was on Alyssa Milano. Then, it was Parker Posey, then it was Janeane Garofalo. Now, Maggie Gyllenhaal. Totally doomed attractions, just the kind I like.
As this dawned on me, this love (?) for someone I would never meet, I looked over at myself and realized that I paled in comparison to Mrs. Gyllenhaal, that I could totally do better. Me with my shitty attitude and utter lack of fashion sense. My musical tastes alone were enough of a forewarning that this wasn’t going to work out, but hell, I was lonely and desperate and just grabbed myself one night, hoping for, well, not excellence, but at least a pleasant distraction.
But to no avail. Here I was, on a date with this me that I didn’t loathe, but didn’t really see any type of future with. And yeah, sometimes you just go out, hang out, no expectations for a future. You both are just out for a good time, a break in the lull. But as I was looking at myself, I looked back at myself and I saw the same realization flash across my eyes, and a soft blink, I squeezed my hand, mouthed a “It’s OK,” with a sad/resigned/relived/totally serene and knowing blink and got up from my seat. I swayed a little bit, tipsy from the beer, and made my way out of the row, only stepping squarely on 4 people’s feet, almost falling face first into the aisle. I recovered from my stumble and walked out of the room.
I watched myself stumble with little to no grace out of the room, saddened only the slightest bit, but happy that we simultaneously and telepathically came to the conclusion that this was going no where. A clean and mutual break, I was amazed. How often did those happen? I counted myself lucky for that.
I sat back, beer in hand, and watched the rest of the film, wondering if Dustin Hoffman chewed with his mouth open. Don’t ask why.
Through the lobby, pushing through the glass doors and into a cold and grey night, unforgiving yet full of possibilities. A whole world for me to explore, to learn, to love and to loathe.
This was yet another beginning, one in a long line of them. Not the first, surely not the last. All I could do was stoke the fires of hope and set off down the street, going where the days took me.
Anyway, my date night came about primarily because Thursday nights is when my four roommates and a few of their friends stay up until 3 AM playing Dungeons and Dragons and drinking beer. On temperate nights they indulge in the separate garage, and on cold nights, REALLY cold nights they play in the living room.
I am glad that they have this hobby and that they enjoy themselves. That said, I do not understand... at all. I had figured that the Tom Hanks made for TV movie had successfully put a nail through the head of the D & D movement back in the day.
I was wrong.
So, rather than hide in my room listening to people yell about arrow hits and chasing errant 20-sided die across the hardwood floor, I have started going out. It’s a good excuse for me to get out of the house, actually, and treat myself to something other than the work/home/nap/surf the net for Ukranian porn cycle that I have fallen into.
So, the D & D is the main reason I have started these auto-dates, but another reason, if I am to be honest, is that, well, I am single, so I am going out with myself in the hopes of getting myself drunk and taking advantage of myself.
I am without morals these days.
But not really. It’s not like I’d throw myself out into the cold, all naked and confused post-orgasm and slide $20 under the door for myself to take a cab home. No, I’d cuddle myself, nuzzle the back of my neck with my nose and I’d spoon me through a cold and anonymous night.
I would cook myself some breakfast and/or a cup of coffee in the morning if I so desired and give a hug and a thanks and depending on how things went say something like,
“Maybe I’ll see you around,” or
“You know, if you get the hankering, I’ll be saving a place in my bed for you tonight as well,” or
“If you leave I will kill myself in a truly horrendous manner,” or
“If I ever see you again I may be tempted to kick you in the neck,” or
“Sorry about last night. The ol’ Brewer’s Droop. You understand, right? It wasn’t you. It was me. It was just that I met you late on in the night and I really had no intention of going home with anyone. No, honestly. Had I even suspected, even for a moment, that something like this was going to happen I would have been drinking orange juice all night.”
Anyway, last night I went to see Stranger than Fiction with Will Farrell and Maggie Gyllenhaal. It was a cute film; tender. A quirky love story. I liked it and it may get added to my list of best love movies of all time (along with Punch Drunk Love, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Lost in Translation).
So, I was sitting there and, this doesn’t happen often, I totally fell for Maggie Gyllenhaal. I thought she was completely adorable in Secretary, but now... I was smitten. Utterly distracted, I couldn’t even keep up the witty banter I was running with me on my date. I dropped the ball.
Her smile, her laugh, her eyes, her weird-shaped head... she is totally cute. Stunning. I envy Peter Sarsgaard, and that Deadly Sin will no doubt land me in hell, but is worth it.
As I say, my celebrity crushes are few and far between. My first was during puberty, thereby excusable, and it was on Alyssa Milano. Then, it was Parker Posey, then it was Janeane Garofalo. Now, Maggie Gyllenhaal. Totally doomed attractions, just the kind I like.
As this dawned on me, this love (?) for someone I would never meet, I looked over at myself and realized that I paled in comparison to Mrs. Gyllenhaal, that I could totally do better. Me with my shitty attitude and utter lack of fashion sense. My musical tastes alone were enough of a forewarning that this wasn’t going to work out, but hell, I was lonely and desperate and just grabbed myself one night, hoping for, well, not excellence, but at least a pleasant distraction.
But to no avail. Here I was, on a date with this me that I didn’t loathe, but didn’t really see any type of future with. And yeah, sometimes you just go out, hang out, no expectations for a future. You both are just out for a good time, a break in the lull. But as I was looking at myself, I looked back at myself and I saw the same realization flash across my eyes, and a soft blink, I squeezed my hand, mouthed a “It’s OK,” with a sad/resigned/relived/totally serene and knowing blink and got up from my seat. I swayed a little bit, tipsy from the beer, and made my way out of the row, only stepping squarely on 4 people’s feet, almost falling face first into the aisle. I recovered from my stumble and walked out of the room.
I watched myself stumble with little to no grace out of the room, saddened only the slightest bit, but happy that we simultaneously and telepathically came to the conclusion that this was going no where. A clean and mutual break, I was amazed. How often did those happen? I counted myself lucky for that.
I sat back, beer in hand, and watched the rest of the film, wondering if Dustin Hoffman chewed with his mouth open. Don’t ask why.
Through the lobby, pushing through the glass doors and into a cold and grey night, unforgiving yet full of possibilities. A whole world for me to explore, to learn, to love and to loathe.
This was yet another beginning, one in a long line of them. Not the first, surely not the last. All I could do was stoke the fires of hope and set off down the street, going where the days took me.
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