I’m at the checkout buying groceries when the blonde cashier looks into my eyes and smiles. When I go to leave, she does it again and tells me to have a great day—but I swear she was friendlier to me than to the people who came through before I did.
After I leave, I stand in the rain and wait for the bus, running the experience through my mind, analyzing her smile, her voice and what she meant by it all. Was my plaid shirt/toque ensemble giving off the stereotypical sign that I’m attracted to women? Was she hitting on me because she’s also attracted to them, or was I over-exaggerating her friendly demeanor?
Blocks from home, I’m still thinking about that cashier and what it would be like to kiss her in the rain behind the grocery store. She’s beautiful, and the prospect of being with someone like her would be a bump to my self-esteem, just like a bump of cocaine that would have me flying high. I don’t do drugs, but I often compare sex addiction to what I assume is the same feeling. Picking up someone who’s a challenge—like a woman I’d probably have no chance with—is like doing high-end designer drugs. Picking someone up who’s easy—like a desperate man at the bar—is about the equivalent to doing whatever low-grade shit you can find.
When I tell people I’m a sex addict, they often respond in two ways: 1) They don’t believe it’s a real thing; or 2) they think it’s awesome that I get laid frequently. These are both incorrect, as I’ve chosen not to have sex in months, and it’s a very real disease that follows me around everywhere I go—when I walk to the store, when I take the train and when I go out with friends. Full story...
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After I leave, I stand in the rain and wait for the bus, running the experience through my mind, analyzing her smile, her voice and what she meant by it all. Was my plaid shirt/toque ensemble giving off the stereotypical sign that I’m attracted to women? Was she hitting on me because she’s also attracted to them, or was I over-exaggerating her friendly demeanor?
Blocks from home, I’m still thinking about that cashier and what it would be like to kiss her in the rain behind the grocery store. She’s beautiful, and the prospect of being with someone like her would be a bump to my self-esteem, just like a bump of cocaine that would have me flying high. I don’t do drugs, but I often compare sex addiction to what I assume is the same feeling. Picking up someone who’s a challenge—like a woman I’d probably have no chance with—is like doing high-end designer drugs. Picking someone up who’s easy—like a desperate man at the bar—is about the equivalent to doing whatever low-grade shit you can find.
When I tell people I’m a sex addict, they often respond in two ways: 1) They don’t believe it’s a real thing; or 2) they think it’s awesome that I get laid frequently. These are both incorrect, as I’ve chosen not to have sex in months, and it’s a very real disease that follows me around everywhere I go—when I walk to the store, when I take the train and when I go out with friends. Full story...
Related posts:
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