Every manís dream
I am a sexaholic.
Maybe you think itís funny. This old dork is complaining about how odd things have turned out?
Odd, of course, is the wrong word. Pathetic fits better, though in your mind itís all just queer.
But I have a real problem that Iím trying to work out.
Of course, girls hated me when I was a kid Ė looking at me as if I was some kind of egghead, who spouted philosophy and poetry, but could not say hello to a girl without sputtering and spitting like a rotted garden hose.
God knows, I still stutter. Iím just not afraid of girls in the same way.
Donít ask me how or why I suddenly became attractive to them? Itís as big a mystery to me as to anybody else.
When it happened, I over indulged at little.
I was for so long starved for affection that when someone smiled at me, I melted. It was very, very addictive.
All I wanted was to get my share before all these pretty women woke up and saw me for who and what I was and went back to the jocks and rich jerks they had before.
The problem is Ė it never stopped.
The more I got; the more women came to me, and worse, the more I wanted.
I was drowning in women and most people thought I loved every bit of it.
But that wasnít the only thing addictive.
Other men started looking up to me the way I used to look up to the jocks that got all the girls in high school, they wondering what I had that made women fall for me like they did.
These guys started to hang around me hoping something of what I had might rub off on them.
Then at some point, I didnít like it any more. Yet when I tried to tell people, no one would believe me.
The fact is, it stopped being fun and started becoming a burden. As my reputation grew, women started telling other women, and I found women pulling me aside everywhere. I had no private moment.
Worse, men stopped admiring me and started wondering if maybe I was messing with their women: husbands, fathers, brothers, sons all gave me that same look warning me without words that theyíd beat the crap out of me if they found out I was messing with the women they loved.
Worse, it was true.
It got to the point I could no longer look some men in the eye, knowing I had been with their wives, their sisters, their daughters, mothers Ė and even in some cases, their grandmothers.
Some men found out. Most didnít.† I no longer had any man I could call a friend.
Not that it mattered much since most of my time was taken up with women, who sought me out, day and night, a work or at home, or even while I was on the street.
Finally, in a fit of desperation, I got married.
I figured this would discourage them.
The strategy failed miserably. In fact, my vows seemed to increase my value to some women, who thought I had become even more fascinating since now our copulating involved some measure of intrigue.
Every woman wanted to prove something Ė the old ones seeing me as a way of making them feel young; the young girls using me to feel mature. All of them seemed to suck the life out of me, leaving me a hollow shell no amount of alcohol or drugs could fill.
Of course, I sought out professional help.
That lasted right up to the point in which the male doctors found me involved with their wives or I got involved with the female doctors.
I went right through the whole profession without getting an ounce of cure.
Now, I walk around like a ghost.
Those men that know me hate me. Those who donít know me admire me.
But everybody, male or female thinks Iím living high Ė when all I really want to do is die.