The Self-Destructive Obsession That Controlled My Life

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The Self-Destructive Obsession That Controlled My Life
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'At 30 years old, at 24, even at 12, it was impossible for me to think about sexual pleasure without immediately feeling shame'

This guy I kind of know named Clay, who has a neck tattoo and sells arty photographs to tourists, is on top of me and he’s not wearing a condom. I don’t care. I’m completely sober. He’s not. I’m not sure what time it is. It is so dark outside that I can barely see Clay’s tattoo or his mouth full of crooked teeth. I hear him grunting; I feel his body’s weight — his six-foot-eight frame on my five-foot-two — and I know he’s almost finished.

My favorite porn scene of all time involves two sweaty women, 50 horny men, a warehouse, a harness, a hair dryer, and a taxicab. You can put it all together in a dozen different ways and I bet you still can’t imagine just how revolting the scene actually is. Sickening: letting daylight dissipate and with it all my plans and obligations for the day because I’d rather stay in bed with high-definition clips of naughty secretaries, busty nurses, incestuous cheerleaders, drunk frat party girls, and sad Thai hookers.

At 30 years old, at 24, even at 12, it was impossible for me to think about sexual pleasure without immediately feeling shame. I felt bad about the type of porn I watched. I felt bad sleeping with people I didn’t like. I felt bad because of the thoughts I feasted on when I was having sex with people I genuinely loved.

In those few weeks, it didn’t matter who approached me. All that mattered was that I was approached. I didn’t need an aphrodisiac-infused dinner, a long conversation spent bonding over our favorite writers of the 20th century, or a glimmer of a potential future. All I needed was an invitation. My adolescent years were convoluted with ideas that chaos was good, that depression meant you were a creative person. My heroes were Kurt Cobain, Courtney Love, Nancy Spungen. Sylvia Plath. Little seemed cooler than Van Gogh cutting off his ear, than Virginia Woolf drowning herself. I romanticized brokenness as a means of resisting change, isolating myself, drinking too much, throwing tantrums, and playing Russian roulette with various dicks to make a point that I just didn’t care.

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