“Help! My Girlfriend Is A Sex Addict!” & Other Trials & Tribulations of 2010 (Part III of III)

Posted on February 7, 2010

4


(Continued From Pt. 2)

Two Weeks After Our Last Update


(We are in Zag’s car, discreetly hidden within a dead-end suburban niche, behind a fog of marijuana smoke and the shadow of his tinted windows)

“Cops and bums; two things this city has plenty of now,” Zig says to Zag. Zag agrees, as do I. Something I’ve been saying for a long time. Zig and Zag are recording their latest ‘pot-cast,’ something they’ll record and then in all likelihood forget or be too lazy to upload later.

“Seriously dude, it’s gonna put us on the… hang on a second­”—Zig takes a moment to hit the bong­. —“the map.”

Cops and bums. These days they’re everywhere— everywhere you go someone new to avoid, marked by a bag or a badge. Even in the neighborhood I live in, tucked beyond the city lines and in the affluence of suburbia, you still have to keep an eye out for society’s undesirables.

The other day, a bag lady around the corner from where I live asked me if I had a couple bucks to spare. I didn’t.

I honestly didn’t. If I didn’t have parents to fall back on, my impoverished ass would be in her shoes as well. Grimy, grim, full of holes and patches. Most people look at the homeless and view them as a kind of subhuman subset of our genus, as if owning a home house and not being covered in the elements’ exposed filth somehow divides the Average Joe and the Average ‘Bo on a genetic level.

These people are the Untouchables of our capitalist society. Because they do not work, they do not live comfortable lives. Because they do not live comfortable lives, they look like shit, smell like shit, are frequently covered in shit. And because of that, they become unemployable. Because they do not work they cannot find work and if they cannot find work then they cannot live. What can we gain from this?

You are just another disposable variable in the equation of Labor.

You—

I get a text. It’s Marcus. It says: “stop ranting moran. Upload ur fuckin blog and finish ur sex story.”

Marcus has discovered that I’ve been recording some of my exploits via web-log and since being mentioned has forwarded the URL to all of his friends and family. He wasn’t joking when he mentioned having “an audience.” Now all of his conservative extended family members brandishing their Winchesters and pitchforks and tea-bags know all about the sort of free spirits that Marcus, a Bible Belt Baby, acquaints himself with. Also, his dad is a cop. Eff Emm Ell.

“Seriously, while people still give a shit,” he tells me on Facebook chat the day before.

And the day before that.

And the day before that too.

And…

The Day Before The Friday “Meeting” @ Aladdins


Marcus is all, “It’s one of her biggest fantasies, she said…” and he looks rather disconcerted.

As a diagnosed paranoid, I am often vulnerable to scopophobic behaviors — fearing that I’m being watched, each nervous look over the shoulder putting myself further into my own worries. My doctor isn’t sure why I do it.

As an undiagnosed nympho, Selena is often vulnerable to voyeuristic, exhibitionist behaviors.

Getting off on someone watching someone who doesn’t like being watched.

You have to admit that the sum of parts in this equation of irony equals at least a few lulz.

Marcus says, “What Really Gets Her Off…”

Martymachlia (n.) —Psychiatry : a paraphilia involving sexual attraction to having others watch the execution of a sexual act.

According to Psychologist Anywhere Anytime, about half of all exhibitionists in the U.S. are married. Some of them therefore make group sex or voyeur fetish a part of their Regular Way of Doing Things. Selena, it seems, was what you’d therefore call a “lifestyle exhibitionist.”

Don’t ever say you haven’t ever learned something new at www.neilckr.com.

Marcus says that he’s not that weirded out by it anymore.

“The first two times she had me watch, I was weirded out, yeah. But I’m used to it now.”

Wait.

“This… has happened before?” I ask. And he looks at me as if I had asked him something so basic and elementary it should not have come off as surprising.

“Uh, duh, dude,” he says. “A bitch with a sexual appetite like hers? You think I’m gonna wait all week on your wishy-washy ass to decide whether or not you’ll fuck her while ready-and-willing guys stand on the sidelines?”

Wait.

“Remember Zack? He came over and fucked her last night. We were all really fucked up.”

“So… how many guys have you, uh, for lack of better words, whored her out to the past couple of weeks?”

“Like five, including you,” he says, then goes, “not that many, really.”

Help! My Girlfriend Is a Sex Addict! : Featuring Marcus as ‘The Audience.’ Marcus had a lot of experience in that role, obviously.

Hello Generation Y, Have You Met My Friend Sexual Liberation? Oh, You Guys Know Each Other Already? Sweet.

I can still count the number of people I’ve slept with on both hands. I’m behind the times in today’s world, it seems, because they’ve caught up with several years worth of sexual partners in a fortnight. A sad thing, really, when one considers how behind the times today’s world is in and of itself. Twentieth century moralities clogging up our twenty-first century sexosphere. Those twentieth century moralities themselves recycled from the nineteenth century.

“Not that many?” I say, stunned. “Are you fucking kidding me? Have you gotten yourselves tested? Jesus.”

“Dude,” he begins.

Dude, dude, dude. The name all dudes share these days.

“Don’t worry about it. No one I know has even one STD. And they fuck all the time, like rabbits. Like, most of the time without condoms even. And they’re fine.”

Listening to NPR a few weeks ago, I heard that one in three people will have contracted an STD by the time they turn twenty-five. Marcus is almost thirty.

“So yeah… don’t sweat it,” he finishes, he himself seeming a bit unsure.

I also heard on NPR that people who exceed fifteen unique sexual partners have a skyrocketed chance of developing HPV.

Let’s get this situation straightened out. Selena is a nymphomaniac, Marcus wants to break up with her but can’t because she is also apparently a psychopath (The More You Know!) and a serial exhibitionist who enjoys making her man watch. Marcus, in spite of this, remains oddly complacent, determined that his coordinated plan of passing her off onto other guys while he bides his time will be successful. And me, the little guy, I’m just another cog rolling along in their fucked up machination. Whether or not I fuck her seems inconsequential when there’s already a single file line of throbbing cocks ahead of me, and I’m not ready to play the role of caboose for this crazy skank.

Unless of course it means I might get to replay Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater.

Zoom into later that same afternoon turned evening, when the sun is down and I am getting ready to meet Marcus and Selena at the hookah bar against all better decision-making, if only just to see if this dynamic duo were for real or if I was just being fucked with, which is usually the case. Tonight, I would either get fucked, or be fucked with. The spontaneity of my life makes it impossible to give one outcome a bigger likelihood of occurrence than the other. I’m trimming my beard, washing my face, spiking my hair with crème, trying to make myself look presentable. Wouldn’t want to punish-fuck someone while her boyfriend watches timidly in the corner and not look my best, after all.

Am I really going through with this? Does my life really offer so few genuine thrills that this is what I’m reduced to?

Before the self-deprecating device in my brain can ask any more stupid questions, Marcus texts me to inform me that they will not be able to join me this evening.

“Why not?” I ask, annoyed and relieved.

“shes not that into you man. My b.”

Huh. Wait.

I call him; it rings but he doesn’t pick up. He calls me back five minutes later.

“Sorry homie, I was shitting,” he explains.

“So you’re not going to make it tonight, huh?”

“Nah… I talked to her about it. She got kinda mad that I told you our business.”

“She… Wait, your business? She’s fucking your whole social circle and somehow it’s still a goddamn secret?”

Can’t have the whole world know you’re fucking, well, pretty much the whole world. Wouldn’t want them to think you’re a slut or anything.

“Yeah I thought it sounded retarded too. But yeah.  She’s not too into you cuz you’re way younger or something, so she’s not interested. Guess I shoulda checked with her first. Oh well, we’re gonna hit up a movie or something instead. Catch ya later,” and then —

“Wait”— click — So after all that…

After all that…

F.M.L.

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