I have a confession to make before I have even vestiges of the literary integrity necessary to say anything meaningful or true about promises I will
keep. So I'll start simply by pointing out that I'm a fraud.
It's not that I'm
not a cocksucker nor have any of my confessions been inaccurate.
There really
was a
gr8cock and a
Dex and
Drew and
Fred and
John and I really did suck their cocks like they were M&M's in a warzone and I really love to fuck men from the bottom, "female" missionary position—especially in hotels, where we can rendezvous anonymously, then I work my sexual magic by sucking and/or fucking some lucky new stranger until they just pop.
That's when I get
my reward: When I'm covered, inside or out, with my man's semen —
AKA spooge, sperm, manjam, baby batter. Whatever
you call it, I call it the most precious, addictive substance on the face of the earth — especially when it's clinging to
my tonsils or sprayed all over
my face, which it too
seldom is — that list of homosexy lovers and boner-donors I mentioned in my previous post not withstanding.
It’s not what I’ve
included in my blogs that makes my story false and explains why I've made such uncertain progress over the past 5 years that I’ve been aware of my dick desire.
[And I've been aware of it
enough to claim it as a screen name for this blog and to register the URL/web addresses, “
www.dickdesire.com,” along with “
www.str82gay.com,”
“
www.bi-guyz.com,” “
www.cumpulsion.com,” and “
www.jismism.com,” for good measure.
No, it’s not sins that I
committed for which I stand in judgment in my own mind.
It’s for what I
didn’t do, didn’t even bother to report at the time by mentioning in this blog (oh, did I mention that I totally wuss out on the gay thing every chance I get — mostly because I can blame it on the depression that engulfs me when I wake up tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, not having kept my promises or even attempted a significant power-sharing arrangement between my two warring sides: id and superego, moderated by the shabbiest excuse for an ego I’ve ever witnessed over such a lengthy and disappointing conflict.
Oh, I may have
alluded to the breakdowns, but if you’d like me to cite their occurence by chapter and verse, all you probably need do is note all of the gaps in the database, “
Dicks, Dates & Details,” that I posted yesterday.
It tells a lot more about how easily I’ve given up making my homosexuality the rightful center of my emotional life for reasons I still don’t fully comprehend. I know it has a lot to do with my daughter Sara, who’s always regarded the clarity in goals and projects that easily stakes claim to the center stage of my life when I start a new prescription for amphetamine as
bad pharmaceutically-induced craziness, and I regard it as the best form of craziness there is — outranking even so-called “normal” consciousness and the fear and torpor it plays endless games of “tag” with, for my money.
And my money is what it cost:
All of it.
That’s something else I need to confess, lest any sympathetic readers mistake me for a brave or wise man.
Because here's the truth: A war for control of my life is playing out twice-monthly: Jamie is in charge roughly half the time and Jim takes over when neither of them have the will to fulfill the promises that Jamie makes (“
28 Guys in 28 Days,” for example, or a new simpler phrase, contained in the e-mail address for the author of this blog:
dickaday@gmail.com.)
Because both of us know full well that this experience is not about the drug, dextroamphetamine, at all, except in a marginal way. I've taken it as a prescription medication for more than 15 years now.
It's helped catalyze my brain by increasing the bioavailability of dopamine, prepping my circuits for the psychosexual “awakening” (or at least, the “unforgetting” of my original dick desire I felt as a boy and the homoerotic imprint it left in its high-flying wake.
The truth is that I
want to be gay. Or, more precisely, homosexual, because "gay" is a sociological rather than a descriptive term, and I don't usually set off anyone's "gaydar," because I spent all my formative developmental years learning the heterosexual scripts that were standard-issue at the time.
I
am a homosexual. I just don't know how to kindle the fire of dick desire that sweeps through my mind every time I see a penis—especially the genitals of attractive young men and boys—if I successfully manage to avoid every possibility that I might actually encounter one.
But why does simple observation spark such a wildfire in my imagination? For the same reason that a small lightning strike can turn a forest into a charred desert overnight: there's too many dead trees and dry undergrowth on the forest's floor. The spark is simply what triggers ignition: the fire burns up what's already there.
And that's why I'm willing to promise one last time to keep my appointments with destiny this week, month, and year.
I promise to suck the cocks of every man who'll take me, regardless of appearance or personal style, until I get so fucking accomplished at seduction, suction, and old-fashioned man-2-man
fuck-tion that I have the energy and the joy I’m going to need to ramp up Pink Ink or get a new job and start my new life as a man who wants to be fucked on a more or less constant basis by men I’ve never met before.
That means that I’m going to put homosexual intercourse (oral and anal) at the very
tip-top tip of my list of priorities.
I want to give myself the experience of promiscuity at a high-enough level that it will begin to take away some of the sting that burns in my heart when I think of how cool I would have been had I been able to grow through childhood and into adolescence and early adulthood as a proud, gay man, rather than the whimpering straight child-man I tried to be, without notable success.
So let me state that promise again the way promises like to be declared: I
will have sex with at least one man a day every day during the month of April — and, hopefully, beyond.
That's my
number one priority because my
number two priority is transforming my body and personal appearance. I always say I’m
gonna do something, but this time I really am — even if getting fit fucking kills me.
How fit?
All-the-way fit.
Swimmer’s body fit.
That’s why I posted an old photo of me running a marathon at the top of this column, along with this shot of the cute, skinny fellow, at right: Because that's who I'm going to be again. That's the me I've always been proud to be. And I’ll take a runners' high over depression any time—especially now that I've been off cigarettes for almost a week!
And I'll be that much happier and pleased with myself if I can
will myself to push Jamie's personality way past the place that Jim’s personality surrenders to despair and accepts defeat.
That’s why I plan to create sexual magic with as many men as I can squeeze in this month: To generate the energy and optimism it’s going to take to transition myself away from where I’ve been to the place I’ve wanted to be since I began this journey: with my own kind.
