Take A Walk on the Wild Side

I think the thing that being molested as a kid does to some people more than anything is that it makes them chase the shame for the rest of their lives. Or at least until they figure it out and get some sort of handle on it. More than anything, more than the confusion I felt about something I knew was wrong and feeling good was the shame I felt for years after. It broke me. It made me a bad little kid that my parents would never love if they found out. And yet, after pushing it down for years, it resurfaced, and these experiences are my deepest darkest secrets. I've said I wanted everything out there, but I don't know. This might be too much.

              I know that a large part of my life, in between relapses with heroin, has been spent obsessed with finding ways to have sexual adventures that I knew everyone who loved me would completely disown me if they found out. It was part of the thrill. How much shame can I hide and endure? You'd think it would take a different turn, a more sensible one. If something hurts you, why would you keep running towards it only to be beaten by the same stick but even with more force? And yet, that's what so many of us do. At least that's what I did.

              If I was gay or Bi, none of this would work because it would all just make sense. I'd just be doing what I was into. But I'm not, so all these things I sought out had the expressed purpose of debasing me. And that was the thrill. Walking into a room of friends, knowing I'd just had sex with multiple people of every conceivable gender, was such a thrill because I was so close to exile. Could I keep it together? Would they suspect?

              Short of children and animals, there's not a conceivable type of sex I haven't indulged in at length. The sex itself might have felt good. Generally, flesh on flesh does, but it was the feeling of walking away from some stranger's apartment knowing I'd just added to the list of things that made me a monster is where the real thrill came from. And how fucked up is that? It's like allowing yourself to be shot each night with one extra bullet because surviving it was such a thrill.

              When I started writing this thing, I said I wanted every part of me out in plain view. But I held this back. There was no way this wasn't going to the grave with me. And here I am. I mean, I'm just typing. No one can see this yet, but you might. You might. And the banishment that I've feared/ longed for decades might actually happen.

              If you've seen the movie "Shame," well, then you know exactly what I'm talking about. Something happens to a kid. It goes underground, and one day it springs up like a black orchid commanding me to move. To act, to lie, to fuck, to shame myself in whatever way is available.

              I've talked to other people who understand this force. This demand to build up walls of damage as if they're armor.

              I remember nights running from some transgender hooker’s apartment in West Hollywood and stopping just long enough to get enough cash to get to some other hooker’s apartment in the valley and then, after finishing rushing to meet some guy I met on some dating site. The more unspeakable, the better. It's as if I was telling that kid when I was 8 or 9, "I'll show you motherfucker. I'll go beyond what you can even imagine, and I'll emerge with the wounds to prove it. And All I ever really and truly wanted was to kiss her, whoever she was at the moment. The only thing I can say that I guess I'm somewhat proud of, if even a word fits, is that none of this happened when I was with anyone. I never cheated. I never cheated on her, but I certainly cheated on myself and the memory of that little kid.

              I don't want to, nor do I need to go into any details of the acts. You can google anything you can imagine, and I've been there. But the frantic nature, the panic, the thrill is what matters. I suppose it's very similar to cutting. A million little slits of my soul by way of anonymous, always anonymous, ejaculations as if they were razor blades. Then a mad dash to get dressed and get the fuck out of there. And it's amazing how many people are ready and willing to do this. How many of us were fucked as little kids, and this is our only means of sanity? It seems way too many.

              And I always think it would be much easier to bear if I'd at least been loaded. But I never was. These episodes always happened between relapses when I was otherwise sober. But the double life would emerge, and I'd go into some state of mania where I just couldn't have enough sex. And sometimes you can't, so you go a level deeper and start with computer hookups and webcams. Pure debasement made victory.

              Shame is an odd thing. It's not a singular emotion. It certainly begins as such, but at some point, it becomes a slim safety net. And then an armor, and then it becomes the goal. Maybe it’s simply trying to overcome the initial act. Perhaps it's something else entirely.

              I did these things, all these things, something I can't even begin to describe, but no one can't imagine them, and if you can imagine them, I did them. And I'd get in my car, light a cigarette and add one more little notch into the bedpost of my soul.

              At some point, it seemed to stop. It's been years since it was as effervescent as it became. But the thoughts are always still there. The desire has just been replaced by age and a lack of willingness. No healthy understanding has intervened. I've simply been saved by laziness, I guess.

              If I actually put this out there, well, then there's just nothing left of me to hide. Not even remotely. I may not be bulletproof. In fact, I may become a target, but I know I'm empty of secrets. I'm also just kind of empty. This stuff sucks a lot out of a person's soul. I play a good game. I can be the big loud happy guy in a room full of strangers, but they're always a part of me that knows that I'm just one slip of the tongue or one weird recognition of popping like a balloon. And then I'll just flitter away, into the ether