At a point I became some sort of sex addict but I grew out of it slowly. It became too monotonous; once I was done I was gone. I wasn’t the type that would go all night or for hours, and then maybe talk after, or cuddle or try new stuff or bond or whatever. I was the type to hit the showers immediately after feeling disgusted thinking “man, what a slut”, or “damn, can’t believe I put my finger in there”. I had no more regards for the feminine population whatsoever, pimpery had destroyed my sensuality. I now only thought of women as sex objects, as most men probably do consciously, but this was unconscious. Like most of my other ventures, it only went on for a while but it became an on and off thing, only on when times where hard, moments in the troughs, other times I would kick the horses to the curb. Filthy sluts!
I always said what a man did for a living wasn’t so important but it would ideally mould one into a form and one could pick up certain characteristic values along the way.
In my case, ‘work’ was my ‘life’, plotting, scheming and executing was the job so even when I was idle, I was hard at work and consequently, my real self only came into consciousness once or twice a month when the loneliness had really kicked in and I had to take that chill pill. Nowadays it’s more frequent; at sun down, that emptiness and self repulse awakens. I feel like I’m depressed or something but deep down I really don’t give a damn.
I had blocked out the highs and lows, so that everything would be more constant, everything would be able to fit on a straight line, be predictable, stable and even up to an extent controllable. In a way, it was similar to the way the masses chose the simple life. I was slowly