Self Destruction is Sexy

I’m told, on a fairly regular basis, that I think about sex too much. Of course, without thinking, I use the socially natural response of “I’m a guy.” I try to relate it to being something primal. Hunting, killing, spreading my seed. I want to own the world. And fuck it, I guess… That’s what men do, right? It’s just how we’re built.

Maybe.

Probably.

But, for the sake of argument, let’s assume, that there is some sort of glaring flaw in this theory (not that I can see one just yet). Let’s look at the facts. First, I enjoy fucking. I enjoy making love, and sex, and fucking. Both the emotional high, and the physical. Second, sex is generally good for you. It has all sorts of health benefits (AIDS and other less glamorous S.T.D.s excluded). Third, can you think of something better to do? I doubt it.

But I don’t think we are quite focusing on the original issue here, which is that I think about it too much. Fuck, I’m thinking about it right now. Yes I am…

Yes I am…

Okay, I’m back, but probably not for long. So, I sat down this morning after going to church to figure this out. Yes, I think about fucking at church. I know. Here is where this becomes even more messy than it already is. I’ll try to start small.

Sex sells, as they say. Sure. We see lingerie models selling us everything from allergy medicine to McDonalds. Every woman on TV or in the movies seems to be built specifically for fucking us all through slumber-land. The woman have it no easier than us either, brothers. No. How many fat rock stars can you think of? I can think of two at the moment. Two. How about firemen. What’s the first image that comes to your head? I bet it’s not Ol’ 300lb Leroy who used to volunteer on the weekends. Nope. It’s probably the chiseled fuckwad who doesn’t wear his fire coat thing and would probably get seriously injured if he indeed had to rescue a cat or an old lady from a blazing slum. You’ve seen the type. Why do we see that (or, if you’d like to stop pussy footing around your sexual comfort, why did you as a guy think that, and why does it bother you?)? Every male in the public eye is the same guy on different days. Mr. Rough around the edges, heart of gold, naturally fit, romantic, huge dick, loads of cash, and muscular. And really fit. Did I mention that? Just like each woman is slim, cute, funny, brave, and sports the hairstyle of the month (personally, I have been a long time advocate of dark haired girls with curvy frames, but it appears to be the new trend, and I am having trouble seeing the ones that mean it). So we get that, right? Sex sells.

I apologize for the crash course on that topic, but it’s not really where my interests lie at the moment. My interests lie specifically with my thoughts on fucking and why.

Besides sticking my dick in people who will surely look back on it with shame later, there is one other thing that really revs me up. Music. I like playing it, writing it, listening to it. I like to rock. I like to fuck, and I like to rock. But, doesn’t everybody? I mean, if there are two things that damn near every soul on the planet like to do, it’s fucking and rocking. I think we are getting closer to something here. But, I fear we are swerving dangerously close to the easy “primal” explanation. I’ll try to course correct.

I think I should add here, the other element to my train of thought. People fucking love disasters. We love to watch things spiral out of control. We love to watch maimings and chaos. We love murder, lies, crime, and it’s equally violent counterpart, punishment. We love destruction.

So, if my obsession with fucking is NOT primal, then where does it stem from? Advertising? Probably not. Who cares if it is?

Would you say rock stars are sexy? Sure. How about porn stars? Of course. What trait do the two occupations share? Self destruction. Everyone knows the good rockers are the ones living the closest to death as possible. The best are dead. Who are the best porn stars? The ones who will do anything. The ones who can take DVDA with a smile and suck the cum off of four dudes dicks, two of which are now shit-coated, and SMILE. Everyone knows both professions share drug problems. A lot of people point to that as being THE problem. I disagree. It is keeping these people alive. Keeping them keeping us attentive. We buy your records, your videos. We jerk off interchangeably. You see, with Rock Stars and Porn Stars, part of the allure is believing that these people are going to die young. They are of the moment. They won’t be here forever, but hey, we saw them at the Garden in ‘84. We jerked off to her like a hundred times before she got the implants, man. We are rocking out to their deaths. We are masturbating over their corpses.

We go home from a long day at work, we flip on the news, watch the nightly horror show, get ready for bed, and fuck our spouses. We never see the connection. In that situation of course, it is more of a global self-destruction, but hey, let Rome burn, I say.

Am I implying that we all have a hidden fetish for snuff? No, don’t be retarded. What I am saying is that watching people destroy themselves, bit by bit, is somehow satisfactory to us.

They go down the tubes, we aren’t. We celebrate with hard dicks and wet cunts. We survive! Let’s fuck!

Back to me. MY thoughts. Why do I think about it so much? Well, we have established that self-destruction is sexy.

I have been hospitalized twice for the way I look at the world (so to speak). I over analyze everything. Every word, every gesture. I spend too much time worrying. I panic. My heart races. I go through periods of extreme sadness in ways only others like me could understand. It could easily be said, that I am self-destructive. By nature, even. Try as I might to change anything, Somehow, subconsciously, I fuck it up for myself. I am always tripping over my own traps. I am out to get me.

I have always rooted for the underdog. I have always been with girls who are just as fucked up as me, if not more than. I like damage. I like low chances. I like emptiness. I like suicidals. The humanitarian in me wants to fix them, sure, but the rest of me recognizes myself in them, finds them comfortable. One of my own. Dogs don’t like to fuck cats. No, they like to fuck other dogs. Dogs turn dogs on. Suicidals turn me on.

Self destruction is fucking sexy.

When am I most in the mood to fuck? When everything is in ruins. I used to think that it was because I didn’t want to feel so bad. That I needed something to keep my mind off of things. Now, I wonder, am I simply turned on by the chaos, danger, and loneliness? Does that make me fucked up? Who gives a shit?

There is more to this, I know, but I decided to quit smoking today, so this is all you fucking get.