And Lead Us Not Into Temptation: Feeding the Stupid Beast

Recently I’ve been catching “Finding Sarah” on Oprah’s OWN network. It’s about Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York, and her quest to reclaim her life after a recent scandal left her unemployed, homeless and on the verge bankruptcy. She gets lots of help from the likes of Suze Orman and Dr. Phil – two of Oprah’s favorite go-to people. Normally, this type of thing leaves me cold. Dr. Phil, in particular, has been on my ‘must avoid’ list since day one. But this show drew me in because I felt there might be something I could learn from it. It spoke to me.

Sarah suffers from a variety of issues: lack of self-esteem, poor body image, and a constant need for approval. She will go to great lengths not to disappoint someone in order to win their approval and acceptance. I can relate.

Dr. Phil quickly diagnoses Fergie as an approval/acceptance addict. Initially, I scoffed at the concept – what the hell is that? - but it wasn’t long before I was seeing what he was getting at. I think that is what’s at the heart of my sexual addiction/compulsivity. I want approval. I want to be accepted. If you offer up your dick to me, then you are putting your seal of approval on my being. That dick coming out of your pants says that you don’t find me physically repulsive and that I am worthy of attention. For some reason, I need this assurance and having sex with strangers is a means of acquiring it. The frequency with which I have sex demonstrates just how potent a drug such acceptance is for me. In the midst of a very active period, I will go from one sex partner to another, floating on the energy and pleasure derived from the one before. I find this type of approval so intoxicating that I lose myself in it. I just find myself wanting more and more.

This same mindset is what drove me to do so much theatre. It wasn’t the applause or sense of accomplishment I wanted, though I did care, on some level, about the quality and substance of my craft. I was more concerned with quantity. I was only as good as the next show I was going to be cast in. In other words, it wasn’t enough to be in a show – I had to be cast in my next one. That seal of acceptance from the casting director meant everything to me. It was my drug. So it’s no coincidence that my desire to do and be involved with theatre diminished as my interest in sex and desire to be sexually promiscuous increased.

The thing is, I have now reached the point with sex that I once reached with theatre; I keep doing it, but I’m enjoying it less. The quantity remains high, but the quality is not what it once was. I keep thinking it’s time to retire from the field. The idea of being put out to pasture appeals to me.

That’s not to say that occasionally the sex I have isn’t brilliant. Last Sunday I had a great chance encounter in my garage with someone I met on-line. He was cute as a bug, an inch taller than I, with a very nice body, an ample 8.5 inch dick, and the most beautiful feet I have ever seen. We worked up an incredible sweat as he fucked me every which way we could think of. It was refreshing, because he really took his time as a top. I felt completely opened up by him. Verbally, he was a bit mute – something that always makes me feel a bit insecure, however, based on the fact that he took so much time with me, I do believe he liked what he saw and was enjoying what he was doing. The fact that we kissed so much would also tend to lend credence to such a conclusion.

Given that he was such an exceptional specimen and a bit out of my league (some would say way out of my league), I was satiated for an entire 48 hours. My need for approval had been sufficiently validated.

But it didn’t last.

It never does.

This is probably why my attempts at relationships have failed over the years. Either I never get the approval I’m seeking from my partner or said approval is given quickly, and I then no longer see the value in maintaining the relationship. Or I do something that so offends them they see me as toxic and something they can no longer tolerate in their lives. I can only speak for my part. The dissolution of certain relationships may have more to do with their personal issues than mine – everybody’s got baggage, but I can really only hope to understand (and own up to) my own part. Simply putting the blame on them, no matter how obvious their issues, doesn’t help me become a better person. And that’s the goal of all of this self-searching crap – I simply want to be a better person.

This need for outside approval would help explain why my interest in playing guitar and writing music burned brightly, but soon evaporated. There simply wasn’t an outlet for instant approval. It’s also why playing the piano no longer holds much allure. One has to toil in isolation for extended periods in order to be good enough or produce enough to seek approval with those types of activities. And the opportunities just aren’t there. So, if you’re not able to feed the beast on a regular basis, then the beast must morph into something that can and will.

It’s time for my beast to morph. Writing has become something of a comfort. I’ve been doing it on and off, in various forms for most of my life – poems, lyrics, music, musicals, plays, journals, blogs, etc. So I have it down to a kind of process (depending on the form) – and I like process. It helps keep me moving forward when I get stuck. It helps me make the creative logical. But writing is a very solitary thing with little opportunity to seek or get approval. As a writer, you end up having to be your own cheerleader. Still, unless I overcome my inability to operate in isolation, I doubt my beast will be satisfied with me as a writer.

Stupid beast.

I started running outside this week. Haven’t for years. I was too terrified. Too much fear. But I discovered that the paths outside my gym connect to a very isolated park where there isn’t much traffic. So I have been comfortable running there for a whole week now. If I don’t have zumba or a step class, and the weather is good, I will go for a run. I like that isolation. My mind keeps busy and sometimes music filters into my thoughts without effort. I also enjoy the rush, the stretching, and constant change of pace. My calves hate me right now, but I have been enjoying it.

Yes, this week, summer arrived in Minnesota. It really has been a beautiful week – weatherwise. Now that it’s here I feel less anxious. It’s been a frustrating spring…

…in more ways than one.

My sexual compulsivity remains one of my primary issues. But there’s reason to hope.

Yesterday, after work, I went to this park I used to hang out at and cruise for sex. For about two weeks now I have been going there, changing my clothes in my car, and then taking a blanket over to a hill, where I sunbathe for about an hour. During this time, I may get cruised, but I stay put on my blanket. See, normally, if I wanted to go sunbathe, I would go to the prairie. But that’s not a good idea, if sun bathing is all you really want to do. If you’re having trouble with temptation, then one should really avoid temptation. The prairie offers all sorts of cool places to get naked and do the dirty deed. Also the guys there tend to be high caliber – something not so true about the cruising park I am currently sunbathing at. Still… I get off on just being around that vibe, so I test myself to see if I can be around that vibe without participating. When the guys aren’t all that hot, it makes it easier to say no.

I passed the ultimate test last night. I was getting ready to leave. No one else was around, for dark clouds had had overtaken the sun, causing even me to pack it up. I had just changed out of my shorts into my jeans and hadn’t put on my t-shirt yet, when I look up and walking along the path is the most gorgeous silver-haired man. Classic features, amazing chin, chiseled bod, sporting a pair of black lycra running shorts and a nice tight lycra top. Legs to die for. Seriously – it’s like he walked out of a magazine or an ad on T.V. He walks over to the water fountain and, while I’m pretty sure that he is, I’m not absolutely certain that he is checking me out. There are no other cars around, so I’m trying to figure out where he came from and what’s he doing here. He’s not sweating or huff-puffing, so running is not part of the equation.

Now, I’d just spent over an hour in some intense sun, and worked out like a mad man this week, so I am feeling pretty good in my sexy-baggy jeans, sporting no shirt. Given that, I decide to take my time getting that t-shirt on, giving Mr. OMG ample opportunity to check out my goods. And he does. And then he saunters over to this little parting in the bushes that leads down to this path off the main path that is probably known only to those of us who are seasoned cruisers. And as he disappears down that path…

…I get in my car, buckle up and go home.

The odds of me bagging someone that hot? The odds of me and someone that hot being alone in that particular park at that time of day without there being a single nosy old troll stalking about? The odds of someone that hot being interested in me? Well… that’s not gonna be happening anytime soon. Or maybe ever again. The one that got away. He haunts me.

But I know I made the right decision.