Sex Addiction

Intoxicated: How Not to Lose Yourself In That Good Dick

Discerning Daddy

Clay and I fuck. A lot. We also experiment a lot with sex, with our roles, with who we are, we use fantasy and play and exploration as doorways into who we are.

And we just really like to fuck each other.

Sex is important to me. Sex with my partner is really important to me. I’m not the kind of man who is able to accept the idea that maybe one day we won’t fuck anymore, that we will be life partners who have outside sex partners.

Because sex is about intimacy. And sharing. It’s about closeness. Even when it’s nasty and piss and cum filled, even when he is spitting in my mouth and pissing on my face, there is still the connection, the love. And that is essential to me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying sex is the most important part of a relationship, but it is up there. Along with trust, and love, and friendship, and loyalty, and kindness, and respect.

I think sometimes it’s too easy to say, well, we don’t fuck anymore but we are still partners. It’s too easy to open things up and fuck other guys, and then there’s no more incentive to do the work it takes to still feel sexy toward your partner. Because sometimes it takes work. And creativity. (I want to be really clear…this is just my take on what I want out of my relationship. I think if you find love and partnership and someone you want to share your life with…then fuck anyone else’s opinions. There’s a million ways of doing this. This is just my way.)

Clay and I aren’t open. I say we are monogamous. Clay tells me that is ridiculous. We can fuck anyone we want as long as we do it together. That’s our rule right now. Maybe Clay is right and that isn’t strict monogamy, but I think for me it’s the closest to monogamy I can imagine getting.

It allows us the freedom to explore our sexuality, to have adventures, but to also share in them together. Other guys become a way of enhancing our sexuality as a couple.

I love watching my man fucking another dude. I love watching him make out with another guy. I love sharing a bottom with him, or getting fucked by him and another top. I love watching him suck dick. And then I love going home and cuddling up in bed and just being us: Clay and Jeff.

I use those moments to jerk off to. I think I’m lucky that jerking off to my man is still one of the hottest things I can think of.

Recently Clay blindfolded me and restrained my hands behind my back with his belt and he fucked me stupid, till I couldn’t think any longer, he fucked me into oblivion and he kept on going. At one point he used the belt to spank me. Forcing me into submission.

It was incredibly hot. But it also scared me. Not because of anything Clay did, but because I felt new desires opening in me. New hungers. And it scared me because it meant I was going to have to trust Clay. To really open up to him.

It isn’t easy for me to be vulnerable. To allow people to see my weaknesses and my insecurities. I have built giant walls to protect me.

As a kid I used to tell elaborate lies to hide myself in. I would create vast and epic stories about myself. As an adult I still have this capacity. I’m a writer. A story teller.

It’s hard for me to be honest. It’s hard for me to let you see who I really am. Because what if who I really am is boring, or unloveable, or ugly? What if who I really am is worthless?

Which is funny, because I spend so much of my time writing about my personal life for all of you. But even that is obfuscation. Character building. Using the truth as a way of shielding who I am.

But relationships, if I want them to work, are the one place I can’t hide who I am. I have to find a way to be honest. To trust. I have to find a way to let him in. To allow him to love the ugliest parts of me, not just the good parts.

A few nights ago, Clay had me on my back, my legs up, he was deep inside me, moving really slow, kissing me, his face pressed up against mine. My eyes were closed. I was shut away, losing myself in the sensation of him. When I opened my eyes I saw him, eyes open, watching me.

He smiled at me and said, “Hey.”

And for that one moment everything fell away. For that one moment I felt seen. I tried to keep my eyes open, I tried to not disappear, to be present with him.

Relationships are hard as fuck. For me, a sober alcoholic drug addict who is probably codependent as hell, the hardest part is finding my own space. Allowing myself time to breathe and to be aware. To be my own man. To not turn my dude into a drug. To not get lost in the intoxication of our sex. To not drown in someone else.

Even when all I want to do is drown. To get fucked so far out of my head I never come back. To get lost in him, to save him, to forget myself.

I am a man who has always been hungry for a certain kind of self-annihilation.

So I walk this balance every day, between allowing for truth, and vulnerability, and making space for myself but also allowing for him, for being my own man, and for being the man who loves to worship Clay’s fat dick (I mean seriously, I scored when it comes to this dude’s dick. Just saying.).

And here’s the thing I really want, the thing I am working toward with all my heart: I don’t have to lie to get anyone to love me, I don’t need anyone to tell me my I have worth, I do not need to pretend I am someone else just to prove I am not ugly. I, all of us, not matter how fucked up we might be, are beautiful.

It’s just really hard to remember that. When all we want is to be loved perfectly, and to be safe, to be made whole.

Clay can’t do that for me. No matter how much I want him to. And I can’t do it for him. And the longer we try, the more we try to be everything for each other, the more we will just hurt each other.

So I am trying to support him, and to love him, even when he is flawed and human. And I am trying to remember that even when I lie, or do something ugly, I am still worthy, I am still beautiful.

It’s funny. I didn’t think this piece was going to turn into a new age go love yourself post. I was planning to write about this amazing adventure we had in Palm Springs where we fucked a bunch of guys and had a really romantic date, and swam in a pool and became best friends. I mean, I still plan to write that piece. But I guess I needed to say all this first.

On Sex Addiction, The Joys of Being a Slut, and Being True to Who You are

Discerning Daddy

My friend Christian is 22 years old. He moved to LA to be a music producer. He is dating 3 different men, Robert who is 55, an Accountant, who lives in Silverlake, Max, 61, an artist who lives in a loft in Downtown LA, and Pete, a 57 year old Pilot full of muscles and wild adventures, who lives in Santa Monica.

Christian has other lovers. Some regulars, some guys he just fucks. He is honest with everyone about his sexual exploits. His three boyfriends all know about each other.

“I never considered it a problem,” Christian says to me. We are eating tacos at a truck he likes to take me to in Koreatown. “I like to fuck. They like to get fucked. It always seemed like a good deal to me. And my dudes…I don’t know. I just never felt like I wanted that one guy for the rest of my life. Robert, Max and Pete, they are fucking awesome guys and I love them. Each of them. Totally. I don’t know why that’s so hard for some guys to understand. Why they always have to turn something beautiful into something ugly.”

Recently Christian got called a sex addict. Because he has three boyfriends. Because he has lovers on the side. Because he likes to fuck.

“I’m 22, man. Maybe in ten years I’ll want something different. Maybe in ten years I’ll be like, damn, I want one dude, I want to get married and have a kid and buy a house. I mean, honestly, I doubt it, but maybe. I’m open to it. But this is who I am right now. I’m honest about who I am.” He laughs. “The only time it ever got out of control, if you wanta call it that, is this one weekend when I saw all my dudes, and fucked them all, and fucked like four other guys. But man, I was stupid horny that weekend, and stressed out, and maybe I was using my nut to chill out. I try not to do that, not because I think it’s bad, but because I don’t want to spend all my time chasing a nut. I’ve got a lot of shit I want to do with my life. I don’t want to lose my focus. But fuck it, I had fun that weekend.” He laughs again, he has an easy laugh, excited. “I think I nutted like ten times that Saturday!”

Christian tells me he didn’t like being called a sex addict. It made him feel like something was wrong when before he hadn’t felt like something was wrong.

I have written a lot about my sexual adventures (I estimate the amount of guys I’ve fucked at 3600 and counting!). I’ve written a lot about being poly and my beliefs on sexual freedom. I don’t think anyone should have to live their lives according to someone else’s beliefs or personal choices.

This idea that there is one way to love and fuck, one way to exist in the world, is total bullshit.

When I was a kid my mother threw a party with the theme “come dressed as your favorite astrological sign to fuck”. My mother came representing all 12. I remember listening as she described each sign, and why they were the best fuck of her life. Everyone laughed, but one of her friends said,

“Beverly never was one to commit to a man. One day she will pay the price for that.”

My mother just smiled. Later, when I asked her what her friend meant, my mother said,

“She meant to shame me for being who I am. She meant to control me. She meant to embarrass me. But she can’t do any of those things unless I let her. When people try to do that to you it means they are jealous, or they aren’t happy with who they are, they are feeling trapped, and instead of making changes to their own lives, they lash out at those around them who are happy. Who are being true to themselves.”

“I try to be responsible.” Christian says. “ I’m on PrEP, I get tested regularly. I talk to my partners, even the no stringed ones. You know, I like a little conversation, I like to look ‘em in the eyes when I’m fucking them. I try to be a good guy. But then this dude tells me I’m a sex addict. That there’s something wrong and it got me thinking, what if he’s right? What if something is wrong with me?”

We are in his apartment in Hollywood. He is playing a new song he mixed that day. Above his desk is a print of a photo he took: a homeless woman searching through a garbage can, at her feet is a baby pitbul. The woman looks up right as Christian is taking the picture: her face haunted, beautiful. Sad and yet defiant.

“Her name is Mary,” he tells me. “Everyone calls her Crazy Mary, but that bitch isn’t crazy. She has mad stories. Some nights, when I can’t sleep, I like to sit out there smoking joints with her and listening to her talk. She was once married, had some kids, was like a total Valley House-Wife. She fucked up, man. Smoked meth, got all wrapped up in that dark life, and now she’s here, on the streets, eating shit out of garbage cans.” He goes quiet, looking up at that photo, his music playing, “It’s that easy. Like one minute life is golden and the next it’s all dark and out of focus. I keep that picture there so I don’t forget. How fast it can all go away. Like one bad choice and you’re lost. Forever.”

Christian’s mother is from Mexico. Jalisco. He doesn’t know who his father is.

“My mother was always this free spirit, you know? I’m a lot like her. She’s had lots of lovers. There was this one guy, he was a movie producer, he loaned her the money to buy the house I grew up in. My mom cleaned houses every day so she could pay that man back. She didn’t want to owe any man anything. She always said, “If I’m with a man it’s because I’m choosing to be there. Not because I have to be. It’s a choice.”

“Do you think you’re a sex addict?” I asked him.

“Do you think I’m a sex addict?” He laughed. “Cus that’s the problem right? Dude, it fucked me up hearing that shit. Like had me questioning everything. One minute I’m fine with who I am, the next I’m like, damn, what the fuck is wrong with me? All cus some dude couldn’t handle me being me. Like, I gave him all this weight. Like what he thought mattered more than what I thought. It isn’t what he said. It’s what I allowed my head to do with what he said. The fucked up part: he wasn’t saying it to help me or because he was concerned for me. He said it to hurt me. And I let him.”

I have fucked a lot of guys in my life. I am a big believer in polyamory and open relationships, as well as monogamy and whatever other style of relationship you find to fit who you are. I am a big believer in being true to who you are, and fuck anyone who tries to tell you that there is something wrong with who you are. If you are honest, if you come at your partners with integrity and respect, if you show them kindness and love, then I do not believe it is anyone’s business who and how you fuck.

My husband and I, when planning out our honeymoon, decided we wanted the sexiest honeymoon adventure ever. We decided to go to Berlin, Paris, Barcelona and Madrid. We wanted to fuck our way through those three weeks. I wrote a story for Vice about how Alex and I spent our honeymoon at Lab, the infamous sex club in the basement of Berlin’s Berghain. We had an incredible threeway with a man we met, who later became an important friend to me. We went to sex clubs and met hot guys, but we also spent time together, exploring, going on all the adventures and being as open to whatever life brought us.

I remember a friend telling me, “Wow, that sounds so sad. You spent you’re honeymoon in a sex club? Didn’t you guys want to be alone? Didn’t you guys want to celebrate your marriage just the two of you?”

I was shocked by this, which is maybe naïve. But I was. In my head we had celebrated our marriage just the two of us, we spent it in a way that celebrated who we were, the way we wanted. We had fun. We met some amazing guys. We got laid a lot and had some pretty fucking intense adventures. I am still friends with most of the guys we met during that trip.

“Do you think you’re a sex addict?” Christian asks me. We are eating Tacos again.

If you’re in LA you should seriously check out the taco truck on Ardmore and 8th. Those tacos are fucking amazing!

“No.” I say it confidently, but I’m not sure. I’m never sure. It’s hard not to let what other people think affect me. I am sober 7 years and a few months off of drugs and alcohol. I am an addict. But like Christian, I try to be responsible, I try to be aware. And I try to be balanced, even on those crazy days when you end up fucking four different guys. I try to make sure my life is always moving in a direction I want it to. “I just like to fuck.”

Christian laughs. “Hell yeah. Me too. I like to fuck a fuckin’ lot!”

Please check out my novel, Accidental Warlocks, on Amazon.