Rid Me Of These Sinful Loins!

With the weather being the way it is round here in this part of the world, the chicks are coming out in full force. With so much talent knocking about, it’s difficult not to think lustful thoughts. I can’t believe how popular the old naval piercing game has become. It seems that every broad in a sports bra revealing her stomach has her belly button bejewelled. I must say that I am a big fan of it. I also don’t mind a touch of cellulite on the upper legs. It turns me on actually. So do a lot of other imperfections. I’m slightly weird that way. I think everyone has a fetish or two. It’s okay to look, isn’t it?

Even my spirits are wearing make-up today. I’m thinking about sex quite a bit. But the videos I’ve been watching about lust tell a very different story. They tell me that lust is a trap to detract you from the path of your destiny. Isn’t it odd how one lewd encounter with a hooker in a hotel room can wreck one’s marriage and ultimately ruin their life? All that misery, from just one single horny exchange. Pornography has the same effect on me. You know what’s at stake, but you do it anyway. That’s how powerful lust is. There’s nothing quite like sexual desire.

I should be thinking about Christ more, when I’m feeling like this. I walked past the sex shop earlier and I wondered about going in, just for a peek at the wall of filth inside. Naturally I didn’t, but the thought occurred. Memories of sexy women are in my mind at the moment but not quite ‘all over me’. I think I will be able to resist this time though, unlike all the other instances in my past. The consequences of giving into the temptation are horrendous. They threaten to leave me homeless.

I feel like I have a prestigious title in the eyes of God. Because of my experiences, which involve a lot of signs, miracles and wonders, I feel like an apostle. I feel that this sacred anointing would be made redundant if I return to my old ways. This exclusive seat gives me a unique perception of the world, and I must say that I enjoy it after a few drinks. I venture off into fantasy land, replaying all my traumatic memories which crafted me into the character which I am today. My mind is operating along its old natural pathways again, before I was ever wrongly bound to anti-psychotic drugs due to a physician who doesn’t even believe in apostles.

This calling is kryptonite to my racy needs. I have to try and strive to maintain a level dignity above the flesh. Once you sink into its pleasures, the game is over. I’ll be sat there in tears, with a spirit of willy and fanny back in my life, after so long away. It’s fun at first, of course it is, but once you’re spent its sheer dreadfulness. Nothing but shame and guilt remain. Wish me brave luck in this constant waging battle of war!

'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.

 

Cocaine Anonymous

Remember that bracelet I mentioned the other day? The one a porn star has been wearing, and the one a girl sat next to me in church had on? I’ve been hardly able to get it out of my mind. The porn star has been calling like a wolf from the other side of a valley. I know a successful podcaster from my hometown of Widnes called Shaun Attwood who used wolves as an analogy for his drug-taking days. He said the temptation of drugs was like the calling of wolves. The wolves used to howl at him all of the time. You could throw the concept of a wolf at 101 different university graduates and they would all have a different idea of it in their head. I sure would like to see Shaun’s wolves one day. Preferably rendered by a talented comic book artist. Wouldn’t that be neat?

I slipped up last night and rang my dealer. Before that I called the Samaritans and told them about Precious, the woman trapped in a dungeon underneath my floorboards. I didn’t say she was underneath me, I changed the story slightly and said she was my dying mother on her deathbed. The promise was the important part of it. I didn’t lie about that. Precious has made me promise her that I won’t go back to it. I let her down in a way by ringing my dealer, as the industrious intent was there, but luckily enough he’s been arrested so couldn’t answer the phone. I’m lining up another dealer today, the temptation is just too strong at times, but I’m determined to keep it to the interracial and not fap to the darker stuff that goes on in my life. I’m not ready to talk to anyone about Precious yet, not even a Samaritan. Only you, my eternal White Voider. I know you’ll listen and not judge, as it’s just a guy with a blog on the other side of the planet, or wherever you are. Someone you don’t know or never will. Or maybe we’ve met before, and you’re someone local. That’s fine with me also. A White Voider is a White Voider. And a Blogger is a Blogger. Makes no difference to any of us, does it? I could be frozen and you could be dead. I could be in Guantanamo and you could be a Prince. And we could meet again in the next life, when we are both cats.

I went to a meeting last night, CA (Cocaine Anonymous), and shared about my feelings regarding this bracelet. I didn’t feel embarrassed about it all. I passed the share across with a spooky vibe, interpreting it as a supernatural sign. I would have forgotten that porn star if her bracelet hadn’t of popped up in church. Now she is all over me like cheap aftershave, like a 5XL suit from Jacamo. I’m thinking about outlaying £240 on a bag of beak today, but that will leave me with only a hundred left for the week, struggling a bit like. If I don’t buy it I’ll be comfortable, I’ll have no psychosis, and I’ll be able to keep my appointments. Not to mention my promise to Precious. I also shared about my ghosts, or spirits if you prefer. I mentioned that my higher power is on its way out, as I have lost my leader, Abbie the Kleine Madchen, and more evil fapping will only serve to drive more and more of them away. There are around roughly 25 beings in my energy consciousness. The other night was barmy, as I was trying to sleep. Half a dozen of them were reaping havoc in my bedroom. It’s hard to describe how they behave, words cannot suffice. The only word I can think of is ‘frenetic’. They’re just all over the place, finger-pointing and shouting and clamoring for my attention. It’s so discomfiting and off-putting, my mind simply cannot rest when they are all out and about. I feel so self-conscious and spied upon; so observed and scrutinized. It riles me: It agitates me: It confuses me: It does my head in. I rang my Accountability Partner this morning too. I’ve not spoken to him since I started relapsing seven weeks ago. His words of advice are great. He said that life is better without drugs, and that I have to sacrifice the rushing uproar of narcotics for a better pathway. I wish I had his mentality. He says you couldn’t pay him to a do a line of cocaine. I’m quite the opposite. My lines on average, I’ve worked out, cost 30 quid each. 30 quid for a stupid line of crap! Its madness isn’t it? I only get 8 lines out of a bag. They are 8-ball bags (an eighth), but they are nowhere near enough. And all I can afford. I’d get two or three if I had the funds, but unfortunately I haven’t got the funds. Maybe that’s a blessing. I’d have a couple of hundred pregabs as well, which I haven’t had for several months. They create euphoria in the brain, like a clean ecstasy pill, but you feel flat and deflated when you go without it. See ya next time.

 

A Time Of Temptation

 Day 44. Let’s get this over quick – I’ve got pills to be poppin’, bitches to be bangin’, and supercars to be drivin’. Ha, if only, eh? Then I wouldn’t be sat in the library bloggin’ like a loser to no audience. All jokes aside (you are THE BEST audience really), I feel like I’m doing wonderfully well. I slipped up at the 44 day mark last time I was here, so we’re in the process of setting records here at the moment. We’re righting a previous wrong. Things were going smooth, much the same as they are now, and as time and experience are such trusted confidantes, wouldn’t you know it that I’m now having a bit of a wobble. Nothing major like, it’s all under control (I think), I just feel slightly tempted, that’s all. Mainly because I’ve got the funds in the bank to be able to afford two 8-balls. I’ve never bought two at the same time before, so it would be a substantial blowout. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted, in a sense, a substantial blowout. One where you’re not worried about the stash running low or out completely.

I had that Scarface (1983) feeling when the legal highs were out, because they were pure, uncut, and only £9 a gram. At such cheap rates I could afford to enjoy as many fat stripes as I so desired. No wonder it turned my knees blue, due to poor circulation. I really almost panicked when that happened, I thought it was irreversible. Two 8-balls however would set me back 480 English Sterling, and I could have a break in a Scottish Lodge for that. And that’s without even going to Liverpool to purchase the pornography. That’s another 60 notes including the train fare. My current savings would be demolished and I’d be back to scrimping around until the next pay day again, running flat on booze, fags and food. Which are a lot very far more important than getting off my head for one sesh on the porn. It would be a helluva night like, don’t get me wrong, but do you really want to read another Relapse post from me? Have I got another one left in me? The higher you climb the further back you slip. It’s so cruel, I just wanna enjoy myself, but as I keep saying, it only ends in tears. And I don’t really enjoy it anymore: It enjoys me.

I’ve talked about the open portal before and the fact that the porn stars can see me, and that they give me instructions and commands and get extremely bossy and evil. You might think that is the schizo in me talking but I can assure you that something supernatural occurs when I view porn on illegal drugs. It zaps me of all my power. I’m left feeling hopeless and worthless. It’s these feelings I’ve got to try and remember when I’m getting tempted for one night of pleasure. It will undo weeks and weeks of hard work; I just got a double fist-bump off The Illingworth (my key worker), and he wouldn’t be doing nice things like that if I relapsed again. It’s the little things like that which seem to make it all worthwhile, don’t you think?