INTO THE DANGER ZONE
One of the continuing challenges in my life is my fascination with the dark side. The bad things that decent people aren’t supposed to do, mostly when it comes to sex.
Most of my last entries have been about sex, and by now you’re probably wondering what’s my malfunction, am I a “perv”, or some guy who’s locked in prison and everything here is just a ruse allowing me to facilitate some fantasy of freedom.
No. I may be a pervert, but I’m not a con, or some sex starved crazy…well, maybe I’m THAT, but not in a bad way. I admit I think about sex way too much, and I’ve tried to control it. I was doing pretty good until a few weeks ago, when I tried to get a job writing porn reviews (still waiting for the editor to call) and now my personal “Hyde” is loose once again. But age, and this blog, has made him a little tamer and easier to manage than before.
The last time Hyde was free, he ran amok for the first five years of my marriage. He went to strip bars, bought porn movies, nudie mags, masturbated constantly, and tried to turn my wife into a sex toy. It took a while for me to get him under control and he almost destroyed my life and my marriage. Actually, I don’t know how I got rid of him before. He just went away. I guess that’s why he’s back now, but I’m a lot stronger than I was, and I can keep him in line…I think.
I can’t remember when I first met Hyde, or I should call him “Clyde”, because nothing I’ve spawned could ever be worthy of such an infamous literary reference. My mother would say we were born at the same time. When I was a baby, I demanded breast feedings. When a woman would pick me up, I’d shove my hand in her shirt and feel her up almost immediately. I think the women would get-off on it because they were never offended. As I got older, I would touch myself constantly. My mother is fond of telling stories about how I would wake-up and the first thing I’d do was grab myself and walk around the house like nothing was wrong, asking what’s for breakfast. But I didn’t actually discover masturbation until I was fourteen. I was up late one night, looking at my old black & white television, trying to manipulate the vertical and horizontal controls so I could watch cable – back when there was only one cable network and provider. The picture was a black & white negative, but I could make out enough, and I started touching myself, manipulating the corpus (shaft) with my fingers. I’d always imagined that when I climaxed for the first time, it would feel incredible. But I didn’t even know I had until I felt something wet, and I thought it was blood. I freaked out, too afraid to pull my hands out of my shorts because I didn’t want to see the blood. How would I tell my mother what had happened? When I finally man-up’d and looked, I freaked out more because I’d never seen semen before, so I thought I’d really fucked myself up, I’d punctured some vital organ and was leaking some clear gunk. I’m ashamed to admit it took a while for me to put two and two together. But after that, I was insatiable about it and I think that's why I've never had a "wet dream". But it was painful because I was doing it wrong. I was using the tips of my fingers, the nails would dig into the skin and after a while I’d have these cuts that would bleed. But I still did it, every night, even though it hurt. I think that’s when Clyde was born.
Clyde has always been with me, no matter how nice I appear on the outside, he manipulated a lot my actions as a kid and young adult. In the eighties, he ran my mother’s phone bill into the hundreds making 976 calls two or three times a day. In the early nineties, when I was in high school, he would call prostitutes to hear their voices and see if he could get a freebie. That he didn’t have a car or a license never occurred to him. One time, he left a voice message ad on a sex line and had freaks calling my house at all hours looking for a hook-up. One of them he actually went to meet. A forty-year-old bank manager and his swinging wife who wanted a black guy to join in. But I got there in time enough to make him late for their rendezvous (he still hates me for that). When I had my first car, he would drive to Hollywood to look at the hookers on the stroll. Thank god I never had any money, or who knows what he would have done.
The worst thing about Clyde is how he’ll embarrass me. He’s gotten me in some situations that I’ve spent years trying to live down. Like when he hit on my father’s waitresses, especially one in particular. She was black with an okay face, large knockers, and no ass (again – what’s up with that?). She was like Flo from Alice (an old 70’s/80’s CBS sitcom spin-off from the feature film “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore”) if it was filmed in Inglewood. She wore low cut tops and when she served your meal, she’d bend down real low to give you a good shot of her cleavage. I knew she’d never be interested in me because she was in her twenties, a college student. I was still in high school, but Clyde didn’t care, he went for it anyway. He hounded that poor woman every day, but what’s more surprising was she responded to him. Sometimes Clyde can be petty damn smooth. The lengths he went to chasing this woman embarrassed me, but when it was over, he’d gotten a her phone number, a kiss, and a date. He ended things when he realized he would never “close the deal”.
Digression - What is it about women and their need to entice men? They’ll stay on the phone for hours, saying all kinds of sexy stuff, telling you about all the nasty things they’ve done, and then they’ll tell you how they found Jesus and would never do those things again. If a guy tells a woman about his sexual appetite or promiscuity, or lack thereof, he’s advertising himself. His either pumping himself up, or trying to sneak in under the radar. But women just spend hours giving you all this detail with no hope or desire of acting on them, even when they know what their doing to the men who’re listening to them. Sure, they’ll do the same when they like a guy, but what’s the point of playing with someone they have no interest? Who cares if a desperate man wants their sex? He’ll take anything.
To continue - I don’t know why, but Clyde likes to come out at night. At three in the morning he’s wide awake and it takes a lot for me to keep him inside the house, because he knows nothing good happens in LA at 3am and he wants to be a part of it, whatever it is. But I know what keeps him going, what drives him, and it’s not what you might think. It’s not pleasure or anything like that. It’s the contradictions in my life that give him power.
See, I’m well aware that how I see the world isn’t necessarily real. Especially when it comes to myself. There’s how I see me, and the way you see me. And they’re very different. In my eyes, I’m an ugly duck who’ll never become a swan. Hey, I’m not bitching, I’ve come to understand and accept it. Besides, I have pretty high standards about beauty. I’d have to with “heroes” like Tom Cruise, Brandon Lee, and Michael J. Fox. So I know a good-looking person when I see them, male or female, and it’s not me. I’ve grown accustomed to living by those rules too. There’s only certain clothes I can wear, certain things I can do, certain places I can go. It’s when I try to go beyond that, to live outside those boundaries that I get slapped down. But the way I see myself is different from how I’m told others see me. Since I can remember, I’ve always been told I’m attractive, funny, smart, wise, etc. But the reason why I see these compliments as bullshit, is because they don’t live up to snuff. If I’m attractive, then why do I get rejected and never approached? If I’m funny, why do I bomb nine out of ten times? If I’m smart, then why do I understand the simplest things only years after everyone else and still get debunked by someone with a Ph.D.? And if I’m wise, then why am divulging all this personal information on some blogsite for the entire world to read so they can laugh at me? I have enough people doing that already, I don’t need it from strangers.
These constant positives and negatives form contradictions in my life that I’m obsessed with. I need to know the truth, who’s right and who’s wrong. Are people telling me the truth and I have a poor perception of myself? Or are they blowing smoke up my ass? And Clyde comes out whenever I try to act on the positive, in hopes of disproving the negative. Me? I live off the negative. I see the positive, I hope that it’s true, but I don’t dare act on it because I’m afraid of rejection.
In some ways, Clyde is a good guy and he believes that I’m capable of more than I’m willing to admit. He wants me to have strength and confidence in myself. But he wants me to use that strength, that confidence, to do bad things. Things I can’t allow him to do. Things that would hurt my wife, destroy my family, and ultimately end my life.
Clyde – he’s me, but cooler. And as much as I want to let him out, I can’t because he has no control. He has no conscience, and he’ll destroy everything I’ve built for myself. But I can’t get rid of him because he’s with me until I die. He whispers into my ears and looks through my eyes. In an office full of women and possibilities, he sees things… Every look. Every smile. Every “Hello” is an ocean of possibilities he wants to explore.
And the only thing keeping him in check is my low self-esteem.
Sometimes, feeling lower than shit is a good thing.
JPG.
Most of my last entries have been about sex, and by now you’re probably wondering what’s my malfunction, am I a “perv”, or some guy who’s locked in prison and everything here is just a ruse allowing me to facilitate some fantasy of freedom.
No. I may be a pervert, but I’m not a con, or some sex starved crazy…well, maybe I’m THAT, but not in a bad way. I admit I think about sex way too much, and I’ve tried to control it. I was doing pretty good until a few weeks ago, when I tried to get a job writing porn reviews (still waiting for the editor to call) and now my personal “Hyde” is loose once again. But age, and this blog, has made him a little tamer and easier to manage than before.
The last time Hyde was free, he ran amok for the first five years of my marriage. He went to strip bars, bought porn movies, nudie mags, masturbated constantly, and tried to turn my wife into a sex toy. It took a while for me to get him under control and he almost destroyed my life and my marriage. Actually, I don’t know how I got rid of him before. He just went away. I guess that’s why he’s back now, but I’m a lot stronger than I was, and I can keep him in line…I think.
I can’t remember when I first met Hyde, or I should call him “Clyde”, because nothing I’ve spawned could ever be worthy of such an infamous literary reference. My mother would say we were born at the same time. When I was a baby, I demanded breast feedings. When a woman would pick me up, I’d shove my hand in her shirt and feel her up almost immediately. I think the women would get-off on it because they were never offended. As I got older, I would touch myself constantly. My mother is fond of telling stories about how I would wake-up and the first thing I’d do was grab myself and walk around the house like nothing was wrong, asking what’s for breakfast. But I didn’t actually discover masturbation until I was fourteen. I was up late one night, looking at my old black & white television, trying to manipulate the vertical and horizontal controls so I could watch cable – back when there was only one cable network and provider. The picture was a black & white negative, but I could make out enough, and I started touching myself, manipulating the corpus (shaft) with my fingers. I’d always imagined that when I climaxed for the first time, it would feel incredible. But I didn’t even know I had until I felt something wet, and I thought it was blood. I freaked out, too afraid to pull my hands out of my shorts because I didn’t want to see the blood. How would I tell my mother what had happened? When I finally man-up’d and looked, I freaked out more because I’d never seen semen before, so I thought I’d really fucked myself up, I’d punctured some vital organ and was leaking some clear gunk. I’m ashamed to admit it took a while for me to put two and two together. But after that, I was insatiable about it and I think that's why I've never had a "wet dream". But it was painful because I was doing it wrong. I was using the tips of my fingers, the nails would dig into the skin and after a while I’d have these cuts that would bleed. But I still did it, every night, even though it hurt. I think that’s when Clyde was born.
Clyde has always been with me, no matter how nice I appear on the outside, he manipulated a lot my actions as a kid and young adult. In the eighties, he ran my mother’s phone bill into the hundreds making 976 calls two or three times a day. In the early nineties, when I was in high school, he would call prostitutes to hear their voices and see if he could get a freebie. That he didn’t have a car or a license never occurred to him. One time, he left a voice message ad on a sex line and had freaks calling my house at all hours looking for a hook-up. One of them he actually went to meet. A forty-year-old bank manager and his swinging wife who wanted a black guy to join in. But I got there in time enough to make him late for their rendezvous (he still hates me for that). When I had my first car, he would drive to Hollywood to look at the hookers on the stroll. Thank god I never had any money, or who knows what he would have done.
The worst thing about Clyde is how he’ll embarrass me. He’s gotten me in some situations that I’ve spent years trying to live down. Like when he hit on my father’s waitresses, especially one in particular. She was black with an okay face, large knockers, and no ass (again – what’s up with that?). She was like Flo from Alice (an old 70’s/80’s CBS sitcom spin-off from the feature film “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore”) if it was filmed in Inglewood. She wore low cut tops and when she served your meal, she’d bend down real low to give you a good shot of her cleavage. I knew she’d never be interested in me because she was in her twenties, a college student. I was still in high school, but Clyde didn’t care, he went for it anyway. He hounded that poor woman every day, but what’s more surprising was she responded to him. Sometimes Clyde can be petty damn smooth. The lengths he went to chasing this woman embarrassed me, but when it was over, he’d gotten a her phone number, a kiss, and a date. He ended things when he realized he would never “close the deal”.
Digression - What is it about women and their need to entice men? They’ll stay on the phone for hours, saying all kinds of sexy stuff, telling you about all the nasty things they’ve done, and then they’ll tell you how they found Jesus and would never do those things again. If a guy tells a woman about his sexual appetite or promiscuity, or lack thereof, he’s advertising himself. His either pumping himself up, or trying to sneak in under the radar. But women just spend hours giving you all this detail with no hope or desire of acting on them, even when they know what their doing to the men who’re listening to them. Sure, they’ll do the same when they like a guy, but what’s the point of playing with someone they have no interest? Who cares if a desperate man wants their sex? He’ll take anything.
To continue - I don’t know why, but Clyde likes to come out at night. At three in the morning he’s wide awake and it takes a lot for me to keep him inside the house, because he knows nothing good happens in LA at 3am and he wants to be a part of it, whatever it is. But I know what keeps him going, what drives him, and it’s not what you might think. It’s not pleasure or anything like that. It’s the contradictions in my life that give him power.
See, I’m well aware that how I see the world isn’t necessarily real. Especially when it comes to myself. There’s how I see me, and the way you see me. And they’re very different. In my eyes, I’m an ugly duck who’ll never become a swan. Hey, I’m not bitching, I’ve come to understand and accept it. Besides, I have pretty high standards about beauty. I’d have to with “heroes” like Tom Cruise, Brandon Lee, and Michael J. Fox. So I know a good-looking person when I see them, male or female, and it’s not me. I’ve grown accustomed to living by those rules too. There’s only certain clothes I can wear, certain things I can do, certain places I can go. It’s when I try to go beyond that, to live outside those boundaries that I get slapped down. But the way I see myself is different from how I’m told others see me. Since I can remember, I’ve always been told I’m attractive, funny, smart, wise, etc. But the reason why I see these compliments as bullshit, is because they don’t live up to snuff. If I’m attractive, then why do I get rejected and never approached? If I’m funny, why do I bomb nine out of ten times? If I’m smart, then why do I understand the simplest things only years after everyone else and still get debunked by someone with a Ph.D.? And if I’m wise, then why am divulging all this personal information on some blogsite for the entire world to read so they can laugh at me? I have enough people doing that already, I don’t need it from strangers.
These constant positives and negatives form contradictions in my life that I’m obsessed with. I need to know the truth, who’s right and who’s wrong. Are people telling me the truth and I have a poor perception of myself? Or are they blowing smoke up my ass? And Clyde comes out whenever I try to act on the positive, in hopes of disproving the negative. Me? I live off the negative. I see the positive, I hope that it’s true, but I don’t dare act on it because I’m afraid of rejection.
In some ways, Clyde is a good guy and he believes that I’m capable of more than I’m willing to admit. He wants me to have strength and confidence in myself. But he wants me to use that strength, that confidence, to do bad things. Things I can’t allow him to do. Things that would hurt my wife, destroy my family, and ultimately end my life.
Clyde – he’s me, but cooler. And as much as I want to let him out, I can’t because he has no control. He has no conscience, and he’ll destroy everything I’ve built for myself. But I can’t get rid of him because he’s with me until I die. He whispers into my ears and looks through my eyes. In an office full of women and possibilities, he sees things… Every look. Every smile. Every “Hello” is an ocean of possibilities he wants to explore.
And the only thing keeping him in check is my low self-esteem.
Sometimes, feeling lower than shit is a good thing.
JPG.
posted by QABBAL at 5:10 PM
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