Can one be a sex addict? Is it something that compared to crack cocaine, where the next fix is all that matters? Is it a compulsion? Something a brain tells one he or she must do? Or is it a choice? Something that some are blessed to enjoy?
Exploring this conundrum continues for me along this journey. My last entry had me at 18 on December 19, 1985 — the day I came out. Funny. For some of us, we can pinpoint that moment that homosexuality bubbled into place and never left. I prefer pinning some of it on that day because it solidifies how I came into being.
Oh, and for your information, my Dark Passengers (please notice it’s plural) only emerged on my journey with no connection to being gay. As I’ve explored, the freeing nature of coming out and being gay allowed me to accept my Dark Passengers rather than force them into the darkness of a closet. I see them. I know them. I embrace them.
A little math and you know I’m more than twice that age now. So I know a thing or two about addictions, compulsions and passions.
I am not an addictive personality. I have one addiction — precisely one that I have indulged and maintained. That happens to be caffeine. I’ve tried other elements in my life and avoided the resulting symbiotic relations.
To be honest, I’ve never felt that sex could be an addiction. People speak of the brain’s chemicals and how they’re altered by sex. Sex is not a man-made substance or some artificial insemination into one’s body. It’s naturally occurring. It happens to feel good because it’s supposed to feel good. I do not get the shakes upon withdrawal. I am not addicted to sex.
That leads me to compulsion. This might be a viable option. Each of us carries our own mental illness. It’s called life.
I have my own issues, including some social phobias, especially trouble with crowds. I’ve adapted my life to allow me to function within normal parameters so most people have no idea that inside, I am suffering when at a sports event or concert or crowded mall. I voluntarily take medication to minimize the affect that these circumstances bring on me. But even if I were to experience a panic attack, you would not see me fall to my knees or cry or run or even react in any way.
As I’ve expressed, I am a quiet person. Those moments would result in a social cocooning that allows me to cope. If you were to approach me, you’d find me short and defensive — mostly unlikable. I get that a lot. I am fine with it.
In the workplace, most do not even know how deeply entrenched my introversion expresses itself. Few know since I can give presentations before thousands and never flinch — even come off as gregarious and charming.
So in my examination, I have trouble concluding that I have some mental breakdown within the need to fuck ass.
My sexual prowess links only to one place at which I can firmly state is likely its home: Passion.
Not passion like a passionate kiss. I’ll borrow from Wikipedia: “Passion is an intense emotion compelling feeling, enthusiasm, or desire for something. The term is also often applied to a lively or eager interest in or admiration for a proposal, cause, or activity or love.”
Something beyond love but not love at all. I have a passion for all things technology, for fresh and impressive sushi, for a well-made martini, for roller coasters of all sorts and for sex.
My Dark Passengers ride with me on the parabolic hills and inversions of my passions. These ghostly riders tap into every circuit of my being and make me drunk with unfailing precision. A moment of perfection occurs within my life when I exist only at a flavor explosion in my mouth or the explosive orgasm in an ass.
You have met the boy. The child, abused and molested, involuntarily and completely by choice. The dichotomy of who I am. My next entries will not be so chronologically organized. While I am on a track, I do not know which of my Daemons will emerge.