smut shame and authenticity

ive spent the past 72 hours prostrate, cycling through a particularly feisty flu. over the past eight years, my inability to achieve work/life balance has made the common cold familiar and unimpressive, even when its persisted for weeks, then months.

that said, the past three days has rekindled that respect; ive lost track of time, my aching abdominals fear the inevitable coughing fits, and my left foot feebly searches for a cool oasis in my bed of tangled, damp sheets. amidst this discomfort, and too pooped to jerk off, i try to kick-start sexy dreams. in my hazy, nyquild state, my bath house or bedroom fantasies quickly devolve into incoherent, very unsexy work-inspired story lines.

you should know that this is only my latest foray into harnessing the potential of unconscious self-pleasure. early attempts were more impressive. on a few occasions while in the throes of puberty, i went to my greenhouse under the guise of horticulture. amid flats of recently germinated phlox and sweet william, i recorded explicit fantasies into my panasonic cassette tape recorder.

i surmised (probably incorrectly) that the moments just prior to sleep were the most fertile to insert sexual innuendo. to allow sufficient time to drift into that netherworld between consciousness and sleep, i left the tapes first minutes blank. when i put on my headphones, however, my giddy anticipation and the roar of white noise kept me awake. when i inevitably woke up hours later with the headphones painfully tied around my neck, i had nothing sexy to show for my troubles.

its amusing to think of my shame as i made these tapes- the fear of being exposed as a little pervert. today, my greenhouse story time reminds me that deep down i am a pervert, thank you very much, and theres no need to hide that. given the inconvenience of secrets, i think we still keep them because exposing them threatens our pride. for me being mixed, homo, american, from a "kooky" family and porn-inclined, are all things that have incited shame and reprimand from others. yet, i dont regret what factors conspired to gain me these descriptors, nor much of anything else then or now. i value authenticity and i dont need help regulating my morality. im bored of parsing words to meet others standards of propriety. im tired of how my actions are judged by people who are themselves fearfully suppressing dirty secrets. and im sick of when their shame is exposed, thus devolving society another 25 years.

im convinced that were all narcissists. embarrassments discomfort is overrated, and my desire for people to know me and to create authentic connections with them trumps my fear of bad writing. in a perfect world, by more fully processing and owning my experiences, this site will help me to reject shame as an excuse for not being authentic. if i dont succeed, at least it wont be the first time ill wake up in despair with a cord wrapped around my neck. im kidding.