4 Months Off Porn

Another positive day here at the blogspot. I feel like I’ve shrugged off my drug history forever. I’ll look a complete berk if I come back here next week saying I’ve relapsed, so I’ll keep that in mind. I really hate admitting my relapses to you. I’d like to think that you want me to do well, and keep writing on the money. That’s a pleasant thought. Time and time again I’ve admitted my mistakes, and it only gets harder to do so. I’m surrounded by hot women in skimpy outfits in this part of the world, during this nice weather, but I’m watching insightful videos about lust, which warns me about it being a cunning trap from the enemy. When I abstain from porno, I usually feel like I am missing out on something special. You know, all the latest releases and stuff. I would go into the shop and glance upon the DVD boxes, with their enticing screenshots on the back. Often I’d be overcome with obsession and buy them right there at the till, unplanned. Then I’d score, watch, and catastrophe would ensue. Now I am giving that sexy loop shop a vigilant wide berth, in case something powerful and interracial pops up and catches me off guard. One glance at the cover and I wouldn’t be able to shake it from my mind. I’d have to have it. It’s been over four months since I viewed adult material. I feel like I’ve cleared my psyche from a homosexual, women-abusing spirit. If I were to regress, it would undo much rest and comfort, and land me squarely back at ground zero, in the heart of the lickerish skirmish.

At the moment, I don’t feel like I am missing out on anything much. Modern porno cannot live up to my expectations of it. During one of my last adventures with it, the fella started rubbing baby oil on the woman’s breasts. That totally turned me off. What the hell is he doing that for? I wondered. Are they childish or what? It’s just little things like that which spoil the fun. It’s full of similar glitches. The camera angle isn’t right, the female leaves her skirt on, or has no bloomin’ make-up on, that kind of off-putting stuff. It cannot compete with the way I want it done. The way I imagine it to be, like the stuff I was raised on which does not exist anymore, is nothing like the stuff available today. I’m sure, with an internet connection, a widescreen monitor, and a fistful of dogged determination and patience, I’d find what I wanted, but that’s not an option. Towards the end of my web days, I was getting embarrassed about typing in the same old sex search words time after time. I was sure that someone at Virgin Media was pissing himself at my gayness. It was the same bloke over and over again, I hardly cared about the woman he was with. I thought I was straight, I have never fancied men or nothing, but I couldn’t get enough of his exploits. And he had hundreds of titles to surf for. I associate Hell with all of his back bibliography, and bare supplies of cocaine, in a room with a 40” screen. At one time, I’d be as happy as a pig in crap; it was a vivid fantasy, a lifelong dream. If only I could have access to all of his titles, and especially his earlier work, before he got a gut, I’d be happy. I also had ambitions of working in the sex shop at one point, and being submerged in all knowledge of the smut. The awe I used to garner when I first discovered those sex shops in the city...wow. Walls and walls of filth, all shiny and colourful like vape stalls.

I’m glad to have all that out of my system. With a large interracial backlog, and a suitcase of cocaine, I’d have no spiritual future. It would be the end of me. It would end in Doomsday tears. There would be no more smiles. No more joy, no more bliss, no more hope. It would take me away from God. I know, I know, how can mere porn and drugs destruct your relationship with the holy? Cruel, isn’t it, but that’s just the way it is.