This is completely paraphrased and I can’t even tell you which of my friends originally said it, but it went something like this: There’s no such thing as a gateway drug. If you drink or do drugs, then you have made the decision to BE a person who drinks or does drugs. People, American people, too often are caught up in the minutia of the different negative connotations of abusing their bodies one way or another and attach their own version of righteousness or rationalize it however they want. The fact remains, you are fucking with your chemistry to achieve a certain effect.

How do you think this applies to sex? As boys and subsequently men, in our shit-talking circles be they around the sandbox, in the locker room, around the water cooler or snorting lines off the toilet tank in the rankest bathroom ever, I’m sure you’ve heard or have been the one saying, “I’d never pay for sex, never…ever!” And it would be said with the haughty self-righteousness of Alpha-Male Junior in training, wrapped and delivered with all the subtextual insecurity you could pack into one shitty little boast. But as you get older and try and fail and win and lose at sex-getting, relationship-having, girl-charming, you come to realize that that grey area and the notion of paying for it is a very wide river, with varying tides, ebbs and flows. We men, and even women, are always paying in one way or another for sex. It’s the natural flow of things. There’s a swinging pendulum and gain and loss and success and failure, but it’s safe to say 30 years away from the Swingin 70′s in our post-AIDS, post-celebutant, faux slut future, somehow, you pay.

That’s to say I am thinking of the first friend of mine to say he visited a prostitute. Granted, it was in Amsterdam. He said, “I had 3 things I planned on doing: smoking hash, getting a tattoo and seeing a hooker, and I did all three.” I was astonished in a way. I mean, I’ve always been a little naive when it comes to other people’s sexual activity.

In high school I kind of knew people were having sex, but I couldn’t picture it. Sex to me was a big black hole during puberty. Pre-puberty (we’re talking like 5 years old) I had managed to stick my dick in or around ever hole in/on my girlfriends. Looking back, playing doctor was kind of shockingly erotic — we knew we were doing something “sexual” yet were completely innocent. I remember standing on the corner with my girlfriend (yes, still around 5 years old, saying, “Let’s do it like in the movies,” and we kissed for a long time.

After my hormones kicked in I had no real sexual relations until about 16, so my only thoughts on other people’s sexuality came from porn, which my cousin introduced me to around 12, again I was shocked to finally know, to finally see what it REALLY looked like when people had sex. At least that was my impression until I actually started doing it. Even then, it probably wasn’t until my late 20′s with broadband internet that one could really see how awkward sex really was.

So here was my friend telling me about his training-wheels prostitute story. I say that because if you’re going to get a hooker, Amsterdam is probably the simplest and in its own way most sterile way to do it. It’s basically like going through the drive through. The only thing complicated about it is one’s own indecisiveness. Who to fuck?

Sex and drugs, then. You ARE the kind of person that would do drugs. You ARE the kind of person that would pay for sex, with money. With a real person. Or…

I saw my first prostitute a day after leaving what became a toxic two-month relationship with a girl I’d been doing drugs with all summer. I had smoked pot off and on since about 17. I tried coke for the first time at 25. I did acid, mushrooms and ecstasy somewhere in the middle. At around 30 I found myself on the other side of a glass pipe smoking crystal meth, as my future girlfriend, unbeknownst to me, a meth addict, looked on and said, “What the fuck are you doing.” Three summers later I was living in her apartment snorting meth 2 or 3 times a day, loving it until it became so chaotic I had to get the fuck out of there.

I was in Buenos Aires, I had just arrived about 10 hours earlier. I was with a friend who grew up there. Our night was ending and we were wasted. Smashed together in a cab, 4 of us were redirected to a brothel, which turned out to be the happiest place on earth. There were about 100 girls kind of clustered together around the bar, maybe about 45 or 50 guys scattered around the room, some playing pool, some dancing with girls, others watching sports, everyone was smiling. I was tired. Honestly, I was scared. I was sharing a room with a dude who was not scared, and was DOWN for it. That meant if he picked up a hooker there, we were in the same room, this was probably going to scar me for life. I HAD to get one also. I was coming down off meth, I was a basket case internally, but I really needed to get the girl and the drugs off my mind.

We talked about it for a second: Let’s find 2 girls who are already together and get this going before it gets any later and all the good ones are taken. We looked behind us and there were two decent looking, dark-skinned girls dancing with each other. About 10 minutes later we were out the door. I was about to be someone that paid for sex. Looking back, everything that happened during the drug-addled two months prior prepped me to see the reality of the dark side of male-female relationships. Sure it’s not nearly as negative as I am making it out to be, but then maybe what I’m talking about is just a colder, harder dystopic version of important attributes like COMMUNICATION and COMPROMISE that seem to go missing from most of your fucked up 21st century relationships.

I had 2 more encounters with prostitutes over the next 3 years. Both in Amsterdam. One was good, one was horribly unsatisfactory. In all 3 cases I came under 5 minutes and none of those orgasms felt like ORGASMS. They were like the kind of orgasms you have when you are full of anxiety and can’t sleep the night before a job interview, or a business trip with 24 hours of flying, or the LSATs. You pull on your half-limp dick just to get off and hope the chemical rush you get in your head will be enough to make you fall asleep. It’s never good like that.

I’ve thought about getting hookers about 1000 other times. But it’s all wrapped up in that same, “I’d never pay for sex…” bullshit. It’s not always as cheap as Buenos Aires or Amsterdam to get a hooker, at least one that wouldn’t be terrified to be with. To be with a LADY. Quality. But the finances also, one would want to believe, negate the notion of STDs, that the fine lady would be somewhat discriminating, even if most of her rich partners probably aren’t. But then I think back to my Amsterdam sex. Aside from her the base of her hand touching my pubic area, and my hands on her ass and tits, maybe her hair, my thighs and her ass, there was barely ANY actual unprotected contact. I mean, I barely was inside her. It’s pretty sterile, folks. In Buenos Aires I played with my girl’s pussy for a little while, much to her surprise and appreciation. That was really the only bodily fluid contact I can remember.

But here I am now. I’ve tried more drugs than most people would admit. I rarely do any. I paid for sex with a real person 3 times, with money, and haven’t done it since. Yet, I am now someone who does drugs, gateway or not, and I am someone who pays for sex.

Usually I try to stay out of my dude friends’ business; they tend to date the most insane girls ever and for the most part I let them because after three weeks they clue in & dump ‘em. Except one of my friends didn’t clue in, and I asked him to write about it a bit now that they’ve had a messy breakup laced with internet drama and an airing of each other’s dirty laundry. Which means of course I invited him to air his frustrations via my blog, because that’s what friends do!

Right?

Am I wrong to think that steady sex is an important factor in a successful relationship? Everyone’s definition of “steady sex” is way different. For me it means daily, or at least 4 to 5 times a week. So, if that’s the case, why did I spend a year with someone who only fucked me a couple of times a month?

When we first met, it was a few times a week. I thought nothing of it because our sexual chemistry was great. I figured she’d just get to a point where she felt super comfortable and then I’d tear it up a few times a day… then it started to dwindle.

After a few months it was once a week, then once every two weeks. Every time we fucked, I wasn’t supposed do anything other than just missionary. When I said “turn over” or something, I got the “I don’t want to” or a “noooo, I’m lazy.” Really, this bitch would not let me express my artistic sexuality. After six months I asked myself, “Why am I jerking off so goddamn much? I have a bitch in my bed every night. There should be lips, snatch or bootyhole around my dick.”

I brought it up with the gal and I got the typical “I’m tired,” “I work too much,” “I’m just not in the mood” excuses. I worked far more hours than she did and came home tired. but I made sure my dick was ready for anything.

Of course, this turned into an argument which ended with some make-up sex…but again, the day after it was as dry as Ashy Larry. I was concerned because we had this vacation coming up and if I didn’t get crazy pussy for the money I shelled out, I was going to be super pissed. I just wanted to be intimate with the person I loved, you know?

So there we are in a foreign country, staying in a 5-star hotel overlooking a lake. There was something she kept calling “scenery”, wild animals running about and all kinds of shit chicks appreciate. I dropped money on expensive dinners, souvenirs, tattoos, etc. every day. Yet each night ended early with me wondering what her fucking problem was.

The last night we’re there, I am waiting to unload a monster nut and as I’m trying to initiate some intimacy she tells me she’s exhausted. I was pissed. We got back home the next day and I laid on the guilt about her not fucking me on this trip. As she was working on making it up to me, I made sure to “accidentally” cum on her face. Monster load in her eye. It was classic and I managed to make my “I’m sorry” believable while not smiling… it was fucking hard. She was lucky so many of her rat-fink friends were around during this trip, or I would have gotten my fuck on elsewhere.

Month 7 came and went without even a game of “just the tip.” She insisted that I was not the problem, but I was becoming “overly sexual” to which I replied, “IF YOU DIDN’T HOLD OUT ON THE PUSSY, YOU WOULDN’T BE SO IRRITATED BY ME TRYING TO FUCK YOU ALL THE TIME.”

I gave up after this… over the span of summer to winter we fucked maybe 10 times. Each time was like the first time I lost my virginity all over again. I didn’t even know what to do or how to react during the times my dick was in her mouth (which was even more limited than penetration). There was even a rare moment where we had sex two days in a row. This may sound pathetic, but trust me, if you’re not getting enough pussy, you’ll remember each and every time you got your dick wet.

When you suspect something, you suspect something… I went through her phone. Shitty move, but something was up. There were several texts to one of her girlfriends, the worst one read “I know what you mean. I’m already thinking what it’d be like to bone somebody who isn’t John Doe.”

John Doe being me, of course.

“What did I just read? Did this bitch just say she wanted to fuck other people?” I said to myself. Not only was she saying she didn’t want me anymore, but she was talking about having sex! I brought it up, only to learn she was “confused” and felt weird about us but didn’t want to break it off. I, stupidly, didn’t tell her to go fuck herself right then and there. The next month was really just a prolonged ending-she moved out and got her own place. We were still together, but broke up Christmas night because I’ve “changed.” A bullshit reason, but I was actually relieved.

Now I miss the convenience of having someone there (rarely) but that’s it. I know at some point I’ll find myself a bad bitch who is willing to do freaky shit with me whenever I want. Before I go I have to ask: What is wrong with these broads who don’t want to fuck on the regular? Ladies, if you love your man and he loves you back then FUCK HIM. Fuck him often, fuck him well. Do freak shit that will keep him around forever. Guys, if you’ve been in it with a broad for a long time and she’s not fucking you as much as you want, you need to leave that bitch. There are freak ho’s out there that will do it a lot more than the one you got.

I’m so proud of you, buddy.

I have very little faith in the human race, and my job only serves to further diminish that faith daily. The last two days have served only to further that point.

For those of you who don’t know me, I work at a government owned community health center, I clean the filth left behind by the patrons and staff. Now normally, Julene is the one who generally gets subjected to my venting about the moronic actions of the people I clean up after, but I suppose she felt it was time to share the wealth.

This particular story began yesterday, where upon cleaning a section of cubicles I discovered a large patch of red crayon ground deeply into the carpet behind one of the desks. One of the ladies that works in this particular section of the building somehow managed to not only grind a crayon into the carpet, but was oblivious enough to do so repeatedly. In addition to this mess she left, there was a note taped to the floor next to it saying:

(By the way, the capitalization and punctuation is verbatim to how it was written on the note.)

For whatever reason, she felt it was appropriate to write the note with the red crayon in question. First she makes a fucking mess with the god damn crayon, and then writes me a note asking me to clean it up, written with none other than the source of the mess. This is the particular part that pissed me off.

If she had written the note in ink, that would’ve been fine, marker, ok too. Fuck if it was in finger paint I would have taken it home and posted it on my fridge. But with the red crayon? Seriously? Ma’am you are obviously older than I am, and I am 21 years old, there is not a single fucking reason for you to ever write a note to me in crayon.

Any note written to me by a middle-aged woman that could possibly have a hand turkey drawn on the back of it, is something I consider insulting to my intelligence.

There are only two reasons to ever write someone a note with a crayon:
1. you are in grade school, or
2. you are in a psych ward and they wont give you any other writing utensil because you might harm yourself or the people around you.

On a side note, the last person to write me a note in crayon was a 7-year-old girl who was in the class that I was assigned with for student teaching. She had the decency to at least write her note on a page from a coloring book and did a decent job coloring the picture as well. But again, she was SEVEN, which makes it completely acceptable for her to write in crayon. Fuck those kids even wrote me notes in pencil, which puts them way ahead of this asshole of a human being.

Now, luckily the crayon came out, and life went on, and I proceeded to finish my nightly work routine.

My irritation towards the crayon bitch had subsided, that is, until I came back to work today. Upon arriving at the same desk I found myself standing and staring at another note. Today’s note was again written in crayon, it sported a big THANK YOU with one of those smiley faces that have god damn exclamation points for eyes. I fucking hate those things. This woman is clearly one of those irritatingly mindless happy-go-lucky cheesy piece-of-shit people.

Anyway, it was upon seeing this I notified Julene of the situation. While I stood there praying crayon lady was sterile, I proceeded to look around her cubicle for any pictures of her kids. Unfortunately, it was too late, Crayola bitch managed to have offspring at some point, meaning she has done her part to weaken the human race. There are lots of people that should be sterilized, but they aren’t. So they fuck and have dumb ass kids, who grow up to write me notes in fucking red crayon.

Once again, I lose faith.