You should see the search terms you guys ride in here on!

So.

Is blogging still a thing? Or do we all just radically overshare on Instagram/Twitter now instead?

I don't know, I've been off-grid. But what I do know is that I feel compelled to vent, to record my feelings here. Some of my feelings here. I'm kinda guarded nowadays.

But fuck it, let's get fucking ripped off the fermented thoughts I've been brewing up. Let's dive right in like the old days. Let's throw caution to the wind and fart together from the top of a mountain, with no shame, just freedom and LIFE.

Are you in?

SEX ADDICTION.

Experts are now saying that sex addiction is a fallacy.

These experts obviously have no idea what it's like to suffer under that, and are the same nerds who tell us something is bad one day, and good the next.

So I'm going to tell you what it's like, because you all trust me. I'm like the Fred Rogers of the blogosphere. This is my experience of it, and everyone is different I guess. I did go to a 12 step program once for sex addiction, but I'm going to be honest here and say that I never went back because there were no women there, and I am a sexual predator by nature.

At least, I used to be. I found a way out. I hope it lasts. It has for a few years now. But it still feels like new skin- transparent, potentially temporary. Weak.

Because my desire isn't a 'want'. It's not an orgasm. It's an all-consuming, throat-tearing, choking, shuddering need. A Bloodlust. An absolutely intoxicating addiction, and it would kill me if I let it.

Here's a view from the bottom:

Wake up. Rub your face in your hands, and as consciousness begins to leak out from inside of you, (probing the room, fixing your place in space/time, reminding you...) ...that you absolutely, utterly, 100%, hands-down cannot fucking stand yourself.

This feeling has deep roots. It's your motivation for everything you think, say, and do. Occasionally you manage to fight your way out from behind it- to be a person in the world, but it always pulls you back.

Because it IS YOU.

You feel ugly, and it doesn't matter how many beautiful people tell you otherwise, you objectively know as fact that you are, if not ugly, then wholely unremarkable, and in no way genuinely attractive. You know this because those beautiful people always go away, to be with other beautiful people. 

 You see them make a thousand excuses to stay with a person who looks right externally, but is shallow and deceitful inside. They get hurt again and again by other perfect people, and they always ask themselves why.

Because perfect looks are interchangeable. And if they deal in that currency, there is always...ALWAYS someone more beautiful than them (at least to the person they're interested in).

And even though they may fuck you now and then, because you're funny, or have status, power, fame, or money; when that novelty ends, so too does their interest in you.

You're fucking trash. But the kind of trash people are embarrassed about after they throw it away.

And after decades of being overlooked, of not being good enough, of feeling like an inconvenience and a stain on the world, you find yourself here. Trying to work out a good reason not to die today.

And it settles upon you. Your eyes focus, your breath flows deeper. Your muscles engage, and you rise. You fill with purpose, and right now nothing else matters in comparison. All you can feel is the need. All that you are is the purpose.

You will hunt.

And all you do, with every sick beat of your heart, is seek out and engage in sex. You will say and do whatever you have to, to get it. You will hurt yourself and anyone else, to get it. You will sink to depths of depravity and desperation that would make any reasonable person feel ill, to get it. 

And you thought Charlie Sheen was just having fun...

You hate yourself. You make others hate you, and the cycle continues.

Masturbation is a massive component of some people's sex addiction, but it never was for mine. Mine was barely about sex at all. That's like accusing someone of having a car addiction just because that's what they use to get to work.

Sex is a vehicle, its purpose was solely to transport me to that place where I was inside someone  for a time. Where I could pretend that I was in love. Pretend that I was right where I wanted to be, with someone magical and special. That our union was intense and rare, instead of the reality where I spit my poison into you, infect you with my disease- my utter inability to be in that moment. My inabilty to be human, or even just present.

I just wanted to feel beautiful. Something that so many people just take for granted, know as fact. And it's the shame of it that broke me out of my need for it.

Don't get me wrong- I still feel it. Every minute, every day. It's the worst thing about my life. And there's no way out, because if anyone says they find me attractive I am incapable of believing them. But I don't give in to the voice. I don't let it wear my body like a machine, and use it to do its own bidding.

And that's where the addiction part comes in. You do suffer withdrawals- horrible, painful physical, emotional, and spiritual withdrawals; as you learn to stand up alone. It's pathetic, like any addiction, which is why people who identify as sex addicts could use a break I think. Life sucks enough, believe me.

I work in strip clubs a lot, and that is a whole other mess. Being surrounded by (generally) insecure girls whose physical beings are so at times incredibly lust-inducing does not help. When they feel the need to win you over because they are competitive with the other girls, it's not always easy to just make an excuse and leave. That voice calls out from the blackness and questions what the hell am I doing. "Shut the fuck up."

Because I know there is nothing but heartache and having to deal with the resentment in them that everyone but you has put in there, in those encounters. Trying to find a way through the generalizations they tell themselves about men so they can cope with what they do... exhausting and pointless. We're not all the same- some of us are trying to evolve. Some of us, want to be exactly the kind of men you always hoped existed in the world. And some of us, are succeeding.

And it's not about just not having sex.

It's about being in charge of the kind of sex you want to have. If any.

In the past I would literally hunt all day, all night; drive myself physically into the ground, in the pursuit of more and more sex. The people didn't matter (although for me they had to be physically attractive, or it wouldn't connect with my issues adequately). But just like any other kind of addict, I found myself constantly in places and with people I was just horrified to find myself in. People I just couldn't stand. Situations that were so dangerous and unhealthy. Always looking for that bigger score, that purer high.

Unfortunately, and as I have talked about before, I had access to a lot of gorgeous and impressionable women through my previous work, to the extent I didn't even have to try to get laid- all I had to do was be there.

And I'm filled with shame to think of all the people whose formative sexual experiences I polluted with my contemptuous and hateful disease.

Sometimes, just like with drugs, the fog would clear for a minute, and I'd think "What the fuck am I doing here?!", like when a young child you didn't even know existed would walk in on their single Mum while we were fucking, wanting their parent, who I was taking to places no child should ever see.

The memory of those times makes me so sick, adds to my self loathing.

For the record, I would always leave right away when things like that would happen. I was an animal, but still so intensely protective of children. I just pray and pray and pray that those kids don't remember any of those times, but of course they fucking do. I'm some kids bad childhood memory.

And to those more vanilla among you, fucking in clubs, in alleys, walk-in refrigerators in restaurants, in parties where you don't even know who it is you're fucking because it's so dark, in beds while partners slept beside us, with Mothers when the daughter was asleep, with daughters when the Mother was asleep, or the Father was asleep, or worse; when they were awake and I'd make them watch as I claimed what was theirs for myself before carelessly throwing it back- it all might sound pretty interesting.

Fucking so much every day you're constantly in pain, your body crying out for rest while you relentlessly drive it into the ground.

And some people may genuinely desire that.

But that's not what I wanted, it never was.

I wanted someone, just one person, who made me feel like I was beautiful to them. Someone who made me feel safe enough that I could invest everything in them alone.

I have had relationships with so many amazing and inspirational women, but no one has ever made me feel safe in that way.

And while they would lose their minds with anger and jealousy over other connections I would nurture on the internet and in real life; they didn't think I would notice that it was because they were doing exactly the same thing.

That if someone was to make me their priority, and to find a home in me... well, that's all I ever wanted.

So I had to work a way out of this for myself. No support, no one to talk to, nobody I could cry to when I felt weak, because honestly, no one gives that much of a shit. And when I'm doing well, and making my mark on the world, people swarm around me like flies. But when I'm off-grid, and needing simple, healthy human interaction, it's always just me.

Like I said, I've been fighting this for a long time. And I knew the key to short-circuiting my compulsion was to take control of the sex I wanted to have. To identify it, and only allow that past the gate.

And I eventually worked it out.

My last relationship ended more than 2 years ago, and I haven't had one since. I have dated someone for a couple of weeks, I 'saw' a couple of people (in the hopes it may turn into more), but I never felt inspired to stay.

If I slept with someone, it was because I decided that in that moment in time, and with that person in particular, I wanted to share sex, with them, and always in the hope that it would bring us closer. It's ok if it didn't work- I'm not a puritan.

The point is I stopped myself from giving in to the old way of doing things, even when it would have been so easy.

I was in Los Angeles a couple of weeks ago. I was doing a product shoot for my bicycle business, and catching up with an old friend.

My friend had to work a couple of nights that I was there, so I went out on Hollywood Boulevard to a bar I know, and just hung out.

Americans are generally such welcoming and lovely people. I know the conception of them is often loud and ignorant, but I just don't come across that so often. So when I go out (unlike in Melbourne, Australia, which has its head rammed so far up its own ass it's almost a head again), I find it really easy to make friends.

I can't name the person I'm about to talk about (at least, I can, but it wouldn't be nice), and because they are easy to track down if I describe them even generally, I won't do that either.

What I will say is that she is beautiful, famous, interesting, and inspirational. What I will also say is the last thing I am about to do is start a relationship with someone on the other side of the planet. So for me, when we met, I treated it as just a chance meeting in an interesting place, with someone I'm very glad I met. We talked for hours, and all of a sudden the lights came on, and it was closing time. I looked at the clock above the bar and was surprised to see the bars close really early over there, and as I turned back around her lips were on mine.

She kissed me softly and told me I should stay with her tonight. I didn't kiss her back, made my excuses, and walked out.

It wasn't the kind of sex I want to have, and I thought we were just two new friends talking. I had no idea she would do that, and I felt incredibly awkward.

I want to fuck someone in my town. I want to fall in love with that person, and share the good things in my life with them. I have a lot of great things happening right now, and it feels wrong to just keep it all to myself. If I buy my farm, I want someone special right there with me, helping me pick out and raise animals, being a part of my life, not just a night.

I want to sexually destroy that girl, then lovingly reassemble her.

I don't want to waste my time inside anyone who won't at least potentially be that person. I've had enough 'experiences' to last several lifetimes. I don't want any more, especially not the kind of experiences that evaporate when it's over, leaving you with nothing but a slowly fading memory.

This girl in L.A., she's still my friend, which is nice. But I know for a fact one day soon she will disappear from my Instagram, because what I did wasn't a very nice thing to feel.

The point is, I chose. For myself, according to my own desires. I don't for one second regret the decision I made.

Now here's the hard part.

I don't believe I'm ever going to be loved the way I want to be loved. People come along occasionally, and express an interest, but their own damage always speaks clearly to the fact that it will never, ever work. Either that, or I'm just not good enough.

And that's ok.

But I don't want to make my problem, their problem any more. I don't want to make an excuse just to feel that rush again, then leave them wondering what happened. I don't want to be greedy or self centered.

I either want to love someone, or no one. No in between.

And even though it means I don't get to have sex at all any more, I'd rather that than sharing it with people who don't deserve me.

Because even though I'm no beauty queen, there are at last more good things than bad. I'm not a victim to my past, but the pioneer of my future (How stupid does that sound?!)

The point it, I'm proud of me. And that's what it takes to break that cycle.

I say "Love or nothing."


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Please exit via the gift shop- The sex issue.

I have heard so many women throughout the years bemoan the fact that a lot of men have no class, and are obsessed with sex.

Not a healthy kind of obsession, where you fuck your girlfriend 'til she can't walk because you're both so into it all the time, but the seedier, creeps into your conversation inappropriately, leaving new introductions hanging in an embarrassed set of scare quotes, kind of obsession.

We've all met him. Parties, bus stops, he sells you emergency junk food at the all night convenience store. Ultimately harmless, but giving off that terrifying stench of desperation that only the truly committed can pull together. Excessive sweating is optional, but always goes well with the overall mélange. Sets it off, even.

And it shocks me, because women are usually the ones with hearts, the ones that have compassion.

The reason some men are creepy is because they are sad and damaged, unfulfilled, lonely, and desperate for attention they are ensuring they will never get.

They masturbate to shiny pictures of girls in bikinis in the magazines tradesmen buy in their lunch break. They idolise these girls, constantly fantasize about meeting them, sweeping them off their feet and out of their panties. And over time, the dream becomes too painful, because it just gets further away. And the desperation grows accordingly. Then they become "sluts" and "whores".

That's pain language.

I grew up in rock'n'roll, on the road. I was surrounded by the standard conception of "sexy." Those girls were my sisters, my stand-in mothers, my agony aunts, and sometimes my lovers. Healthy, for the most part, and so I grew comfortable in the presence of women, of beautiful women. I can talk to them well, which apparently is a gift. I never knew there was any other way, not for a long time at least. They are home to me, I love and appreciate beauty, but I'm not mesmerised by it like the creeps we're talking about here. I don't just shut down and grunt, go red and run away stuttering, or the worst kind of all, smile like a snarling dog and employ derogatory expletives to narrate depraved sexual scenarios for a womans potential participation.

They do it because they are lonely.

We all have dreams that didn't eventuate- 'Fight Club' was built on that foundation. And these guys dreamed, through the pages of Penthouse, that one day, a girl like that would love them.

But she never showed.

I have shared a bed with more than one girl from those pages, each time was a mistake, a waste of valuable time. Not to say all 'Pets' would net the same result, more that the dream isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Still, when is it?

Nowadays, some kids just jump straight on the creepy and desperate bandwagon. Some of them just give up instantly, and go straight for gratification at the bottom of the barrel. Don't believe me?

Go here.

Fully graduated from stealing their neighbours lingerie from the washing line, or masturbating through a crack in the curtains as the netball team walk home, now they just wank on the internet.

"Surprise! It's MY COCK!!!!"

It's so odd how so many men now just don't get it. that while it's good and right to respect women, putting them up on a pedestal hurts everyone. I get so tired of seeing endless sites full of girls who have no talent, nothing to offer, but the photos they post up for male attention. Vapid, insecure no-ones, who are downright worshipped because they won a genetic lottery, or who got surgery so they could play 'at that level'.

If only they had a thought. And if only boys grew up talking to girls like they're people, instead of "sugar and spice" (which is one of the worst lies I have ever heard perpetrated upon the unsuspecting ears of children!)

And so the cycle eats itself.

Sometimes you come across hot girls who have something to actually say, and they're good value. But rarer than rocking horse shit, to quote Kinky Friedman.

I think that's why Sarah Silverman is such an icon.

I lived in the Middle East for a while, and when I did I was introduced to a cat.

I don't mean that as a dated hipsterism, I mean a literal feline animal.

My girlfriend found him hiding in the bushes in the hotel bar, she fed him some cheese, and won him over. We all lived together from that point on, and he was absolutely the best little friend you could imagine. He adored being close to us, and he grew from something that could curl up in my hand, to a full blown desert cat, muscular and handsome.

We had to leave suddenly, something about me starting a bar fight with an Arab...I thought they were into M.M.A. over there? Anyway, we had to go.

The cat would hang out front of a schwarma store on our block, the Indians who ran it would feed him fatty meat off the rotisserie. We left him with them.

My girlfriend bought a digital camera and a little laptop computer, and gave it to them, making them promise to email us pictures whenever they could. These guys were all certified Microsoft Engineers, they just sold lunches on a technicality. They assured us they would, and the cat was happy, because he would sleep in their beds and get fed 500 times a day by a bunch of vegetarian animal lovers.

The first photos we received were setups. You know, "here we are at the front of the store, the cat's on our laps, we're smiling and waving."

Sometimes we'd get just the cat doing something cute.

Then we got erect penises ejaculating semen, and no sign of the cat whatsoever.

My girlfriend has large, fake tits. She has a dancers body, and since she was an early teen, dreamed of hyping her femininity with surgical enhancements, or as Frank Zappa said- "Mammalian protuberances". Eventually she met the right doctor and an agreeable credit card, and between the three of them, the stereotype of perfection was achieved.

Men kinda lose their minds around her, and I'm fine with that, but it does highlight how some men are, in ways I wouldn't see if I was by myself.

And even though I wasn't surprised per se, I was dissapointed. Not in her, but in the Indian guys level of respect for her. Or themselves.

Those pictures were like pages from a book, I didn't see an image, I read text. And each photo said something like this:

Dear Miss ******,

I very much enjoyed your good humour, and also your patronage of my store. I hope you enjoyed your vegetarian sandwiches and our large variety of freshly squeezed fruit juices. We live to fulfill your stomachs dreams.

Please find enclosed a photograph, depicting my erect penis during the act of ejaculation...I can assure you as an aside it is extremely difficult to achieve a clear image when the hand holding the camera is shaking with delight!

I send you this for two reasons:

1. Spending time around you, I was intoxicated by your loveliness. Living where we do, and being surrounded by veiled Arabic women, the sight of a gorgeous young Greek girl with a body such as yours had a let's say, dramatic effect. I privately fantasized about what it would be like to have you, to make you a servant to my desire. Unfortunately for me, you were with a man, and to be honest I see the cultural differences between us would probably preclude any kind of intercourse other than social.

I wanted to touch you, to reach out, and for you to receive me. To want to receive me. But this was not to be. My loneliness grew after you left. There is now no-one here like you. No-one comes close. And I feel a physical pain from knowing you didn't notice my manhood, my masculine energy, my private sex. I feel insignificant, trapped in the knowledge I will never know the attentions of a woman like you. And coupled with the fact that life here is so hard, the colours that left with you are so sorely missed.

And so I wish for you to witness me at my most vulnerable, but also to prove that I am a man. I am hard, and vital, I am ripe with sperm. Did you know we created the Karma Sutra? I want you to see me this way, to share the moment of my eruption with you. To show you the majesty of what you alone have inspired.

Because I know there is no other way. This is the only method I could conjure, that may bring me closer to you in a fashion. And I need to hide my face, because I truly do know shame from this.

2. I send this to you on the wings of misguided hope: that you would see what is essentially quite an ugly, average, disembodied penis, and that it would trigger some primal urge in you to want it. Dare I say to even need it.

My breath catches in my throat as I imagine you walking through my door again, the spark in your eye speaking to my body, silently proclaiming your need for me. If I could make you need me, I could feel like I matter.

Like I exist.

There are 2 and a half million people in this city right now. 70% of them look just like me, at least to the casual eye of a Westerner.

I am nothing special in this world, and to capture the attention of someone like you, even for the briefest of moments, even in a desperate and perverse manner, well, that would be something more than I have.

And if it made you want me, that would be the most perfect thing.

And if I never hear from you, I can tell myself that privately, you did want me. And that thought would provide me with the energy to continue through this mundane maze of meaninglessness we call life.

Yours so very sincerely- Pradeep V.

So I guess, just like the drunk who shouts at you on the street, because his wife and 3 children died in a house fire when he was drinking with friends, everyone has a back story. And while it doesn't necessarily excuse their individual behaviours, it does shed light on their motivations.

Why do I do this?

As I pass through space and time, and I become increasingly aware of my limited sphere of influence on this planet and its inhabitants, the story behind becomes more important to me. I like to know why, I like to give it my time. I think it makes me better, more patient, less hateful.

And while people ultimately make their own choices, I don't think it's right to punish someone forever. Who are we, Satan?

More tolerance, less ignorant judgement. That's the moral of the day.



This is knifey, from 'the internet'.