Confessions of a Serial Beater



18 November 19

Should I put my hand on her leg or her arm? Do I just go in for the kiss, or is it too soon? Why is George Lopez on TV and why do people like pretzels so much? If I’m gonna do this, I’ve gotta make my move right now. I’ve got enough blood in my penis to offer multiple transfusions if the opportunity, or crisis, should arise. The only way to get rid of this bulging, bulbous, throbbing tent pole is to evacuate the children. Evacuate! Make your move, it’s been months, nearly a year. You owe it to your cock. You owe it to America. You owe it to God.

Hold up just one second penis (named Mr. Belvedere). It’s not that easy Mr. Belvedere, I’m so nervous and I don’t know if she likes me. What if she says no? We have no time to waste you pussy. I’m sick of this shit. Put me in something, somewhere, anywhere. Give me a hole or give me death. No penis, I’ve waited this long, I’m gonna wait until it feels right. You son of a bitch. You selfish son of a bitch. Look at me, I’m, crying. I’m dribbling all over your jean shorts and all you can say to me is, “I’m gonna wait until it feels right”.

That evening on the couch ended like every other evening this past year; With me going home to make sweet, workmanlike love to myself. Don’t get me wrong, I’m great in bed with myself, but I missed the human connection that you can’t get with your own hands. Why is a thirty-two year old man scared of having sex or kissing a woman? Because that thirty-two year old man, me, is fifteen years old again. I got sober two years ago and all of those years of drinking stunted my growth emotionally. Without alcohol to loosen me up, I turned into the fifteen year old kid scared to death of sex, vaginas, and human contact. I still craved these things, especially vagina, but I was back to square one. I had to relive all the terrifying awkwardness of a teenager.

How did I get to this terrifying place? One year into sobriety and I couldn’t muster up enough motivation to use the toilet. I was too lazy to buy Depends so I just stuffed old t-shirts down my pants and let it go. You sit in your filth long enough and you learn a few things about yourself. You learn that you’re not happy and you need to make changes. Just being sober isn’t enough. So, I didn’t really shit myself, but I certainly was neck deep in my own shit. No drive or ambition to speak of and my life revolved around my girlfriend. I depended on her for everything, but I was stuck in another dimension like Doctor Who or Sam Beckett hoping this next leap would be my leap home. Oh boy.

After a while I could recognize what I was doing. I was treating this girl like my mother. I was running home to mommy, because I was too scared to live my own life. This terrifying realization, propelled me to make the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. I broke off the relationship and went out into the jungle of New York City on my own. I didn’t have a map, a flashlight, or a clue, but I had hope and I had faith that there was something out there for me, whether it be a giant shit sandwich from Applebee’s or a newfound passion for the cello. I needed to be Matthew Modine. I needed to go on a Vision Quest. If I got some residual hot older broad trim, all the better.

How do I start my Vision Quest?

Dharma Punx and yoga: The first three to four months of my new life were magical. I was dedicated to becoming more spiritual by attending guided meditations on the Bowery led by my good friend Josh of Dharma Punx. I never imagined I’d be able to sit still in silence for thirty minutes. Alright, I fidgeted around for twenty of those minutes, and half the reason I went was to look at girls, but hey, whatever get’s you in the door. Another thing that I, a half redneck/half asshole from Vermont, swore I would never do, was yoga. So my intentions here were much the same. I met my yoga teacher Adriana at a party for this very magazine. To be totally honest, 10% of me wanted to do yoga and 90% of me wanted to bang her. She’s really hot. But here’s the thing. After my first lesson, I totally, well almost totally, forgot about sex and wanted to do more yoga. She had opened me up to a new way of life. I was getting to know my sorry self.

The Drugs Kick In: You didn’t think my Vision Quest was completely spiritual did you? I’m a sick depressed puppy. I need drugs, hence the beginning of the Zoloft era. Awwww Zoloft. You’re so good to me. I’ve battled depression and anxiety my entire life and it’s a major reason why I drank so much. But, voila! All of a sudden I’m inexplicably getting out of bed in the morning. What the fuck is going on? Women? Don’t see any women. Dating? Who needs to date? I don’t even wanna beat off anymore, I just wanna write. I can’t beat off anymore, it takes too fucking long. I might as well be reading the Koran, because it’s gonna take me a good ten minutes to spit these kids into an old t-shirt. In masturbation time, ten minutes is four days. It took me four days to ejaculate.

Reality Sets In: Fuck me. Mr. Celibate, holier than thou, spiritual guru, yoga maestro, Zoloft chugging, “artist” guy has hit a wall called reality. In reality I like to get laid and I like to drink too much and I like to eat pussy and I like to be a fucking asshole. I couldn’t drink but I sure as shit could do the rest. Welcome to the desperation zone. If I went on a date it ended with a frighteningly awkward goodbye kiss. It had been eleven months since I split with my ex and I hadn’t had sex yet. Let me repeat that I didn’t have sex for eleven months. One more time, my penis was not inside a vagina for nearly a year. When you don’t have sex for an extended period of time it turns into a hitting slump and I was hitting well below the Mendoza line.

Serial Beater: Sexual frustration due to a non existent sex life, inspired and reignited my masturbatory practices. I became a wide-eyed rookie ball masturbator. I was throwing semen lassos all over the place and running two-a-days for the first time since ’95. The most productive week of my lifelong beat-off season came in the last week of July, when I ventured to Oregon to attend a wedding. At the wedding I set my sights on the cutest single girl there. This didn’t play out the way I had envisioned (while jacking off of course). This sad sack of shit couldn’t even get a handski at a wedding. With my tail between my legs, I boarded the plane to return home. Out of nowhere, inspiration hit me like a bolt of lightning. I got up, went to bathroom, and allegedly beat off. Allegedly, because I’m not sure if that’s some kind of sexual offense. I’m pretty sure it is seeing how I’m jacking off ten feet from a 10 year old girl. That’s what we call collateral damage, and during wartime, you have to be prepared for civilian casualties.

Dick Meet Vagina: I returned from Oregon assured that I would never have sex again. Much to my surprise, I was wrong. With the help of a very talented and charismatic wing man, I found my way into a woman’s bed.  It was some of the worst, most boring sex I’d ever had, but on that night it was absolutely magical. For the better part of a year, I worked on me. I made difficult decisions that involved making difficult changes in every area of my life. The side effects of personal growth were as follows; I jacked off a ton, I was very lonely much of the time, and I desperately craved human contact. Basically, I’m human. I need sex and love and human connection just as much as everyone else.

1 Comment

  • S.I.123
    November 22, 2019 at 20:21

    Great post!

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