An Opinion Piece on Sex Addiction
The Untitled Man
I just saw a woman with the proportions of a cocaine model from the 90’s era of modeling. She wore a hot pink dress and it was sheer— I saw a black thong intertwined with her body. She walked as if she was searching for someone… “briskly” I suppose is the word. I’m currently in The Scottsdale Fashion Square Mall and I’m being bombarded with gorgeous women, such as the cocaine one, and I feel a fervent desire to escape to my car and masturbate— I want the cocaine model to watch me. Sexual thoughts are a disease to me.
How do you channel sexual compulsion into healthy, vibrant habits? Why would I want to do anything in this world if it doesn’t involve having sex? I’m trying to cure myself. I work out regularly. I have goals… things that I want to do, but sex enters my mind and simply says to me, “Fuck your goals. Fuck your healthy, vibrant habits. I want you to masturbate. I want you to lobotomize yourself and simply imagine all of the beautiful women at The Scottsdale Fashion Square kneeling before your feet as if you were a Sultan of Ottoman Turkey.”
I ask myself if sex is inherently filthy or is it a pious thing? Is the man about to be pentrated by a dominatrix any different from a man about to make love to his newlywed, high school sweetheart wife? I am of the opinion that sex truly is an evil. It’s a marvelous evil. I want to drown in this evil and wrap myself in it, as if it were cashmere, but, truly, there exists no more debilitating human flaw than the hunger and desire for sex. If somehow this compulsion did not exist and procreation was a means to an end, we would live in a utopia.
There is a fantastic quote from Elena Poniatowska, legendary Mexican journalist, who speaks of the women of Juchitán, Mexico. On a quick tangent, I just saw a woman in a revealing pair of shorts— they were exposing the lower part of her butttocks. My soul has left my body… I am but a empty sack of bones. I apologize, this is the quote:
“You should see them arrive like walking towers, their windows open, their hearts like a window, their nocturnal girth visited by the moon. Zapotec women wear their sensuality on their shirtsleeves. Sex is a little clay toy; they take it in their hands, mold it as they please, shake it, knead it together with the corn of their totopos.”
I am a little clay toy. I am being kneaded together. I am being shaked. I abhor how sex seems to control me and mold me into its liking. Ever since the day I saw Shannon Elizabeth reveal her spellbinding, nude body in Weitz’s film, “American Pie,” I truly have been lost in every sense of the word. I recall having a panic attack that day that I saw Shannon Elizabeth. I invariably composed myself and escaped back into my room to process what I had just seen— it was phantasmagorical.
Now, at the age of twenty-six, my relationship with sex has been transmuted from innocent wonder into a nuanced, complex prism. The cocaine model in the black thong jumps into my mind and I desire not to simply see her naked or make love to her, but, rather, expose her body or give her to another lover, while I watch the spectacle for my own voyeuristic pleasure. Thoughts such as these baffle me, arouse me, and utterly confuse me as to why they enter my mind.
I am becoming increasingly aware of my obsession with sex, since moving to the mountains of Arizona. I suppose I did such a trip to change my life and perhaps go a year without masturbation, without porn, and even without actual sex. Maybe after this time, I’ll be able to have a normal, healthy relationship with a woman, free of the fetishes that currently occupy my mind. I wonder if I’ll be able to do this. I want to do this, but as the Yiddish proverb says, “Man plans and god laughs.” It could very well be that in a years time the fangs of sexual addiction could have sunk even further into my being.
I’ve escaped from The Scottsdale Fashion Square. I am running away from women when I should be talking to them… what to say… what to say— how that question plagues me. A simple hello should suffice, but, immediatly, the filth in my mind, concocts a scenario where a woman, such as the cocaine model, replies to my hello with,
“You want to watch somebody fuck my fat pussy don’t you? Then, you want me to talk about it… while I make you cum. Dirty Dirty boy…”
I despise being twenty-six and I hope to stop feeling this way. To encapsulate my woes, I think I need to just get laid and leave the fantasizing to the literature writers. I recall a time in Mexico where I told myself that I would speak to every woman that I met. I ended up securing a date with a Rubesque goddess by the name of Andrea. Perhaps, I can find another, if I dare to approach the phantasmagorical women that walk the mountains of Arizona. To the cocaine model, a woman that I shall never meet, you will be the subject of numerous tales of mine to come. I am Everett Bernstein from the tale, Citizen Kane:
“A fellow will remember a lot of things you wouldn't think he'd remember. You take me. One day, back in 1896, I was crossing over to Jersey on the ferry, and as we pulled out, there was another ferry pulling in, and on it there was a girl waiting to get off. A white dress she had on. She was carrying a white parasol. I only saw her for one second. She didn't see me at all, but I'll bet a month hasn't gone by since that I haven't thought of that girl.”
I have nothing else to say.
- The Untitled Man