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I’ve been living with major depression since I was eighteen years old. I’ve done a lot just to feel better. Drinking and fucking always worked best. I gave into both of them often.
I regret most of the women I’ve slept with. I found women who were as desperate for orgasm as I was for that moment of pleasure. I found them at bars and clubs. We would go to their apartment or a local motel and unload our desperation on each other.
The sex was desperate and clawing. So many of my women were biters. I’ve been beaten on the chest. I’ve had bruises on my hips and groin. I’ve sprained my wrist in bed and twisted both ankles. I’ve been left bleeding, dehydrated, and sore.
I didn’t care. I never cared. I wanted to be beaten. I wanted to be punished. I wanted to be tortured. I want to be left broken — an egoless cumming.
I needed that kind of orgasm. I needed one screaming moment when I didn’t have to live with myself. My sexual history is awful.
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“In reverent and sweet silence she took all her clothes off and slipped her tiny body into the sheets with me. It was brown as grapes. I saw her poor belly where there was a Caesarian scar; her hips were so narrow she couldn’t bear a child without getting gashed open… I made love to her in the sweetness of the weary morning. Then, like two tired angels of some kind, hung-up forlornly in an L.A. shelf, having found the closest and most delicious thing in life together, we fell asleep and slept till late afternoon.” –On the Road, Part 1, Chapter 12
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
I am fucking you…so that you’ll stay fucked. And if you are afraid of being fucked publicly I will fuck you privately.
Thank you for one more excellent post. Keep rocking.