“Yeah, I’m getting the urge to fuck again. I am starting to remember why I called myself an addict.

I am wondering why I could have ever thought for one minute that I was “cured". Work was crazy. Then mom got sick. For a while, my mind was on other things. I am reminded of the movie “A Clockwork Orange,” in which they take a sociopathic criminal and “train” him to be a law-abiding citizen. It works - for about 15 minutes. He is a criminal, in the depths of his soul, and that is what wins out in the end.

I don’t know why I like sex so much. I don’t know why I need it. But I do. Am I going to start denying myself, for any reason? Doubt it.

Getting off, as in having an orgasm, is cool. It’s a release that every guy needs. But that need is not why I crave sex so much. Your body pretty much takes care of that release: If you build up too much pressure down there, you’ll blow a load in your sleep. And a lot of us guys whack off constantly, too. But just getting your rocks off is only half of it.

I’ve said it before: I think of myself as an antisocial personality more than a sex addict. I like the hunt. I like the conquest. I thrive on it.

I like the ritual of dressing up before I go out. I like the idea of choosing just the right sweater, just the right slacks, and just the right shoes with just the right belt. I like looking a very certain way when I enter a room, walking a certain way, with a certain look on my face, then acting aloof when I get a compliment about my appearance, as if I got dressed in a dark room and threw on the first things I could find.

I like searching the room for the right girl to hit on. Sometimes, guys, it’s not the hottest girl, or the 2nd-hottest girl, or the third. Sometimes it’s the chick in the corner with the wind pants. Is it nice to fuck the sexiest girl in the room? Yes. Have I done it before? Yes. But every other guy at the party is going after her, too. I might fuck you, and I might not. But I’m DEFINITELY not waiting in line to find out.

I like approaching her. I like thinking of what I am going to say, coming up with a funny joke or a good segue into something we can talk about. That’s after I say “hi", of course, because that’s all I really say when I meet someone. I’m not about these dumbass lines that guys always use (Are you from Tennessee? Cause you’re the only Ten-I-see!).

I like watching her look at me, sizing me up, squinting a little, thinking, who IS this guy? And I like watching her face, how it goes back to normal after she stops laughing at a joke, and how she bites her lip subconsciously as she thinks about fucking me for the first time. She probably hasn’t entertained these thoughts before. Fucking me did not occur to her, until just now. But I’ve been thinking about it the whole time, and everything I have said and done has been leading her there, without her even knowing it.

I like walking away at the right time, not looking back, and wondering if I “stuck". I like looking surprised when she comes back over to me later, like I have been thinking about a million other things since I spoke to her last, and she had slipped my mind.

I like watching the look on her face when I ask her to go for a walk, or leave the party. I like how she struggles with the idea, maybe because she has a boyfriend, maybe because she feels like a slut, and I like how I pretend not to notice her conflict whatsoever.

I like the electricity of kissing her the first time, the unknowing anticipation of what her lips will feel like: Wet? Dry? Sloppy? Neat? I like grabbing for her tit, wondering if she will stop me. I like finding out that she won’t.

I like watching her pull her shirt off, her bra going slightly askew, a crescent-moon of breast popping out underneath. I like the thought that, when she got dressed this morning, she had no idea she’d be pulling those clothes off in front of some guy she hadn’t even met yet.

I like the way our breathing speeds up as we disrobe, hot and panting, brimming with desire. I like stopping for a minute before we are totally naked to kiss each other. And as we do, I like the heat of her naked boobs against my chest.

I like looking down and seeing my cock standing straight out, like I am saluting her. I like that moment of delicious anticipation in which her legs are open to me and I am just about to penetrate her, and I like the thought that I have really done it, I have found a way to get this girl to take her clothes off and give herself to me; I have found a way to get a girl to give me everything she has in this world. Again.

I like the rush of slipping it into a girl for the first time, feeling her wetness and heat. I like how the action builds to a crescendo, faster and hotter, and I like how she moans subconsciously as we fuck, and how it feels so good we can hardly take it.

I like pulling my cock out of a girl and blowing a load all over her stomach, or her tits, or her face. I like how she flinches a little, as if she didn’t expect there to be that much, and I like how she says, “Mmmmmmm” after we are done, like she has just eaten a really good dessert.

Can I stop?

Do I want to?

“Go to therapy,” you are saying. Yeah, sure. Go to someone like doc, who will fill me full of drugs, then talk to me endlessly about how it felt when mom whacked me in the ass with a metal soup ladle or slapped me across the face in front of my friends.

Yeah, he’ll give me some drugs, and I will blow up like a balloon and lay around all day, fat and lazy, but I won’t be thinking about sex. You could “cure” me by slicing my nuts off. Does that mean the treatment was justified? Does it mean it was the right thing to do?

This is who I am. This is how I want to live my life. And this is the way I am going to live it, until I feel differently.”

From Mildly Unwell Steverino’s Certified Sex Whacko Blog.

By Robert Shagwell | Nov 28, 2004 | Permalink |

Family dinners are the best. I’m helping make the deep-fried chicken this year with my man LB. If you’re never had the chance to experience culinary perfection, come on over. Momma’ll fix you a nice plate. In the meantime, take a moment to look out your window, ignore the cloudy, rainy gloominess, and give thanks to whatever higher powers have influence over you. There are more unfortunate people out there, and if you have time, volunteer, or at least take in somebody you know that has no family to go to that might be spending Thanksgiving alone. A little show of decency never hurt anyone, sucka.

Enjoy the long weekend, spend the time with your family and friends as if you’ll never see them again. Because, in all reality, it could happen. Please don’t bone any hot cousins, either.

Have a great Thanksgiving, bitches.

By Robert Shagwell | Nov 25, 2004 | Permalink |

Awake to long lines.
Feeling fresh, freshly pressed.
Gonna make a difference today,
make my voice heard, not suppressed.

Grateful for my freedoms,
my liberty and my rights.
Nothing stands in my way,
except that date at eight tonight.

No matter what the next four hold,
be true to what you believe.
Make the difference no one else can,
blame no one; achieve.

Just as our flag made the day,
our country will find a way.
It’s what we do, and do it well;
we’ll unite when there’s no other way.

Thank The Lord above,
for those fighting for who we love,
for those fighting for what we love;
America.

By Robert Shagwell | Nov 5, 2004 | Permalink |

I met this bangin’ 26-year-old brunette at a friend’s Saturday night party a few weeks ago. I could tell she digged my approach, and I think she noticed because she was suddenly playing hard to get. But it’s pretty clear (if you’re looking, that is) that if she lets her guard down, all you have to do is not give a shit. And of course, she kept looking and I caught her peepin’ my shit a couple times. I left her alone, and just before I thought she was going to burst with burning desire, I re-approached. Golden.

She was mine. She agreed to split a cab with me… to her pad. Things got kinda frisky in the back, and the cab driver kept his mouth shut and kindly turned up the music to drown our worries out. We arrived at her place, and the romp continued. Four hours later, we ended with a sincere “I’ll call you.”

We had a second date on my turf: dinner at the Bistro and a small saunter through downtown near my pad, then the requisite sex, which was even crazier this time. She was getting into it. Mental picture: flying cartwheels and backflips. At the end she started probing into my schedule, wondering when I would be free next. This wasn’t the care-free “call me” I got a week ago.

She was starting to get serious.

This was my cue that I could only squeeze one more outing with this sackmonster – max – before, having explained to her I was looking for fun and not a girlfriend or a relationship, things would get more complicated. I ended the date with, “I’ll call you next week", which was my test to find out exactly where she was at.

She waited for me to call, even though she had my number. This was the go-ahead for date number trey. Hell, one more chance and then I’m out, I figured. She invited me over to her house, and this time she added the extra-special touches that were missing from our first date – candles, a respectable Sangiovese, and some cheeses she specifically picked up for the date.

Now, this guy likes wine and cheeses as much as the next dude, but I could tell she was trying. Unfortunately, she didn’t understand that I just wasn’t interested in that sorta thing, because a playa’s gotta play. She boned the shit outta me that night, and something besides my legs was limp with satisfaction as I left her bedroom. This time, I could only end it with, “Call me next week.”

Which she did. I called her back two days later and told her my schedule got exponentially busier. So I told her I’d call her if I had any time. Muhahahah!

And just like that, we never spoke again. Mission accomplished. A picture-perfect ending for a playa. Please take note though, folks, that a playa’s lifestyle dictates he cannot be tied to any woman in any way. Once you think that one special woman in your life will do, you will deeply regret the baggage that you’ll bring into the relationship. So for your sake as well as hers, exercise your right to pimp properly.

Lo! Thus beholdeth the Three Date Rule, and may ye applyeth its statutes faithfully till the End of Time.

By Robert Shagwell | Nov 4, 2004 | Permalink |