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.

'Loop Shop'

My dealer called me earlier. He said it was a ‘welfare check’. Ha! If I didn’t like him a great deal, I’d call it BS. It was all over me anyway (the temptation) but the call didn’t help. I politely postponed the invitation.

I’m thinking about visiting the ‘loop shop’. I call the porn shop the loop shop because I’m always in there over different periods of my life. I believe that my granddad frowns from Heaven every time I enter, to peruse the XXX content. Similarly, he smiles when I walk on by. It’s interracial fodder I’m up for, and big-boobs material. It takes a lot of guts to admit that the male actor in the scene is very important too. I don’t want to come across as gay, but I’ve spent a lot of time looking at the male counterpart in porn scenes. What? You can’t ignore him! He’s rodgering that dolly bird you fancy in high-definition!

It’s hit and miss whether I fancy the female star. Some of them are not my type. The last DVD I bought featured a very ugly morbidly chubby woman who starred in every scene with different not-very-well-endowed men. Regretted buying that one. It was a bit of a joyless debacle, and it’s put me off. It haunts me with its witless brainlessness. But what I fear is this: That I go into that shop and I see a proper fit woman or two with the right kind of make-up, hanging with well-hung blokes. Now that shit I’m buying, right off the cuff, no questions asked. Once I see the action of the screenshots on the back, all bets are off. I’m drawn in by then, I want more. It looks superb, and I want to explore the entirety of the scenes. And because I can’t watch porno sober, I have to buy drugs then. The drugs are the worst part of it, as they lead to my Hell-on-Earth psychosis. I wish I could have a harmless 5 minute knuckle-shuffle, clean and sober, running on naked desire, but I need intoxicants to perform. I hate to add this, but I’d watch anything high off my nut due to cocaine. The drugs make me slightly gay. And the women, if they look the part, become goddesses. I fall in delirious lusty love with them.

It’s all swell fun. It’s the path I decided to take in life, ever since I was a teenager. In fact, I wish I could turn back the clock, so I could make all the same mistakes over again. Not really, only joking. Well, a bit. It’s hard to say. As long as the novelty doesn’t die, the exhilarating drugs and flashy porn high life is thrilling. That’s with the internet, of course. When you’re limited to three titles from the porn shop at a round-off price of 60 notes then you’re disappointed if several scenes don’t make the grade. One night with them, the way I watch it, and I’m getting bored. They all get snapped up and pitched to the graveyard of lost pornographic souls. I halfway wish I would have kept them all to view again, because I genuinely do miss some of them, but I’m in recovery, and being in recovery gives you a conscience.

 

Mandingo & Omar

Well it’s my church big weekend away and I can’t organise a lift! I’m thinking about using on it. Anything that goes wrong usually leads to a use-up. The slightest little thing is an excuse. I’m trying to stay strong and remain with RJ, my chief head honcho spirit woman. She’s actually got a dual identity, Mrs. Rocket Fuel and Diana Bumpton. She’s two women in one. A remarkable wonder to be around.

I went into her origins a few blog posts back. She arrived in a teenage vision, she was embodied in a friend’s story, and she came to life in a piece of red clothing on a wasteland, to surmise. I want to spend more time with her, instead of the cheap pornographic sl*ts I’m always salivating over. Do you think it’s possible, or will the triple-X harlots take me away from my precious love?

My life crumbles apart around me when I view porn and take stims. That’s half of the thrill of it, knowing that there’s no way back once I start upon that beaten road. I’m effectively swapping God’s love for the Devil. I know it’s exhilarating and provocative, watching all those trampy strumpets flaunting their naked wares with big dark-skinned willies, but ultimately it ends up in psychosis and turmoil. If not for the madness of the consequences which succeed, I’d still be doing it now and for the rest of my life. The power of the Celluloid (Corridor) is too irresistible to put down. It’s all about entrenchment and learned behaviours over years and years. Where else am I supposed to get my kicks from? Even a wife or two in the spiritual realm cannot meet my needs in that way.

I had an erotic dream just last night. This is why I’m a horny goat today. I was enjoying a bit of frottage, (the act of obtaining sexual stimulation by rubbing against a person or object), when I decided to kiss the demon in my potentially wet dream on the lips. Her mouth was rotten and flaky and crumbly, like mouldy moss, and I ended up spitting her dry and horribly juicey refuse out onto her breast. Moral of the story: Never kiss seductive mistresses on the lips in the astral. The last person I kissed on the astral was fine, but I never used tongues. I kissed my girl Antonia with tongues in the pub several months ago and I didn’t like that too much either. She’s a great girl with a sexy mouth and all but I find that tongues are slimy and wet and not that enjoyable to sample. I much prefer kissing on the lips with no tongues, cos that way you can’t taste their last meal! Do you get me though? I generally dislike wet things, unless it’s a heated swimming pool, or a steam room, or a cold drink.

I must mention two big swingers here. I was going to dedicate an entire post to them. They are two black male pornographic actors who go by the names of Mandingo and Omar. I was brought up on their work. I can’t believe how gay I feel at the moment talking about them. I don’t really know why I am. I just wanted to get it off my chest. They enslaved me with their exploits in a way; they made me so jealous and envious. I’ve not watched either of them for about three years. My download history was full of those men. Virgin Media must be relieved of me. I’m a straight guy, but they weren’t what I would call ugly men (meaning quite attractive, if I can ever get over being mildly gay), and they were very well equipped in the trouser department. Well, you wouldn’t want to see a woman you’re lusting after with a small penis, would you? Am I right or am I right? Any old hoo, that’s enough about them. I just thought it was time that they got a mention.

They both appeared as spirits one time in psychosis, and gave me an art lesson when I was working on my portfolio! One resonating thing they said was the difference between fortune and wealth. The best way I can describe fortune is this: Take a paraplegic, for example. He or she could have a billion in the bank, but they are unable to run in the wind through the trees. Running is fortune: Money is wealth. Do you see the difference? What would you rather have?