Ah… Summer! Less clothes in public. Even less underwear. I don’t know about you, but I get distracted.
I used to be really horrible with this. Back in my twenties, my mind would stop functioning whenever a woman walked by, wearing something revealing. For years, I was a sex-comedy stock-character.
During my early 30s, though, I specifically addressed my sex addiction. I went to therapy, discovered inner patterns I wasn’t aware of, and made the choice to change them. I evolved a little.
During that process, I realised a few things about how I see women — metaphorically, but also…
Slut-shaming is the practice of criticizing people, especially women and girls, who are perceived to violate expectations of behavior and appearance regarding issues related to sexuality.
In other words, it’s the double standard that permits and encourages men to enjoy a sex life at its fullest, while criticises women who want or do the same. It’s one of the many forms in which male privilege manifests itself, in our patriarchal societies.
Penis anxiety? Let’s be honest. To quote Woody Allen, what I have is penis envy.
Big penis envy.
I don’t mean I have a big envy. I mean I have an envy for big.
I’ve always had it. I always stood in awe before big dicks. Moreover, I always thought that mine was kind of small.
Don’t get me wrong: I like my penis. It’s actually average-sized, well proportioned, and quite nice-behaved. It’s also functional. It pisses. It stands erect. It gives and takes pleasure. It climaxes. All those things are not to be disregarded. Let alone its contribution to…
For a few months, I’ve been corresponding with another Medium writer. Our relationship builds itself on the trust we gradually share — and I’m not an easy person when it comes to sharing parts of me. Thankfully, he cares and respects my rhythms and boundaries.
Our discussions have always revolved around masculinity. About how it can be toxic and depriving men of their vulnerabilities. How its current norm causes us distress and insecurities. How it affects the relationship we have with ourselves and our bodies.
At some point, I posted Self-Nudes, Self-Discovery, Self-Acceptance. In that piece, I wrote about how…
You’ve been sending dick pics for months. No results. Not only do you not convert, but you also lose users.
People unfollow you. Block you. Hate you.
You tried everything. You used a tripod. You changed your lighting and bought a new camera. You trimmed and groomed your pubic hair.
You even hired a professional photographer.
Online sexual harassment isn’t what it used to be. You seriously consider giving up and closing your Twitter account. “I’m too old for this shit,” you say.
Wait! Instead of planning your retirement, keep reading!
It’s not that your dick pics aren’t good…
I’ve been a father for 5 years and a breast-obsessed sex addict for 30.
Since I was a kid, the female breasts electrified my brain. Whether suggesting their volume behind soft fabric, beckoning from the balcony of a cleavage, or appearing in all their magnificent nudity, breasts always rushed adrenaline into my blood and blurred my thinking process. Although I appreciated all angles of the female body, I was always nuts about the twin peaks.
But let’s get back to the father part. What do you get if you put a breast-obsessed sex addict next to a nursing mum?
Deborah: Dan, I love the taste of come. It tastes like everything… good… just… coming out of your cock… the Junior Prom… an autumn afternoon…
Danny: It doesn’t taste a little bit like Chlorox?
Deborah: It smells like Chlorox. It tastes like the Junior Prom.
—Sexual Perversity in Chicago by David Mamet
It’s not that I find swallowing semen funny. Put accidental semen consumption in a comedy and you get the definition of gross. …
I just gave up writing a short story.
It wasn’t high concept. In fact, it was a mediocre idea. Under the pen of a James Joyce it would have stood a chance, but I wasn’t up for the challenge.
Still, I fought for it. When everything about it screamed, “ditch it,” I resisted for about a month.
Don’t misunderstand me. The reason I clung onto it was not tenacity. Neither was it because “I believed in it.” I didn’t.
I clung on to it because I hate the bitter taste of quitting.
I’ve quit more projects than I can remember…
Lately, my writing has bogged down. My creative juices are flowing, but before I shape them into readable content, they turn into not-so-creative sludge.
As a father of two — one of which a sleepless baby — I generally don’t have lots of time to begin with. Staying home with the kids during the pandemic shrunk my writing hours to nanoscale levels.
Still, I can’t blame just the pandemic for my downward curve. My productivity has been dragging since the beginning of 2020.
For some reason, editing and polishing my essays takes forever.
I know I can do better.
Being a sex addict, my approach to nudity has always been polluted with erotic desire. Mixing them is not always a bad thing, but I’ve always found it hard to tell the difference between the two.
And that’s definitely a bad thing.
Besides, being in the visual arts business, I always tended to use nudity in my filmmaking exclusively as erotic imagery — thus replicating my male gaze for others to adopt (or hopefully reject). I found it very difficult to understand that picturing the nude can have other intent or contexts than an erotic situation.
Now, I know better:
Recovering sex addict and self-punisher. Telling stories I wouldn't dare tell under my real name.