Passion Profuse

I was recently given the opportunity to step my game up with my current girlfriend in the bedroom.  I did in fact manage to give her a multiple vaginal orgasm that I could maintain for longer than many minutes and then switch to a clitoral one and do the same.  I did this back and forth several times until I was worried she would go into convulsions.  I was quite pleased to be able to do this to a much younger woman, especially given that she had a hard time with orgasms early on in the relationship.  Now I can give her one anytime I feel like in a matter of minutes.  I try to be humble about this gift but it’s hard because I know for a fact that there aren’t many men this capable.  I know that they haven’t put in the effort and practice, nor do they have the basic fundamental understanding of a woman’s sexual anatomy.

I’d like to work on making women squirt.  I had this happen only once and we were in a 69 position, her legs locked up around my head and immediately about a pint of liquid was ejected into my mouth.  I nearly drowned.  It was all I could do to struggle my way free and get some air, spouting mouthfuls of female ejaculate all the while.  It tastes awful.  Like whale piss, I assume.

I probably come off as an overly aggressive over-sexed North American male.  Which I won’t lie, I kind of am.  The aggression comes in the form of dysphoria which is fading with the medication but I still have my triggers.  One of the biggest problems that I face is when people assume that I am a womanizer.  There is nothing dishonest about my sexual proclivities.  All parties enter into the bedroom aware of what is going to happen.  The only woman I have ever lied to was my current girlfriend.  I had announced to my friends that my intention was to pick up a woman and tell her that I was only 26 (just to see if I could get away with it) and that I had only been with a dozen partners (by the age of 15, lol).  I fessed up the next day before I invited her to come pick up my fitted Hugo Boss suit with me.  She accepted and we have been together since.  I was having sex before she was born, which means that I am technically old enough to be her father.

I pity people who haven’t had the opportunities I have.  There are things about my disorder and behavioural patterns that make me feel truly blessed.  For if I hadn’t been bipolar with hypomania I would have missed out on so many things.  It does however come with a few caveats.  I won’t be much of a family man, I didn’t trust myself enough to have children and distrusted my genetics even less.  While I’m mostly comfortable now that I’m medicated I wouldn’t want to raise a child with some of the disorders that are floating around in my family tree.  All while dealing with my own disorder.  So while I am physically fit, resilient, intelligent and attractive (most of the things you would want in a mate) I won’t be passing any of these traits on to a new generation.

My life is on a plateau.  I will likely never remarry.  I don’t want to sound cynical but I am still a little skeptical about my current relationship.  I do love her to bits but the odds against us are pretty fixed.  The age gap, the very different backgrounds, our places in life and the distance between us.  I’m nearly certain she will meet someone closer to her both geographically and in age.  I know she won’t intend to drift but she will.  As I’ve learned recently all the love, consideration and orgasms in the world can’t make a woman appreciate you when her mind is made up.  The ex had to turn me into a made-up villain, demonize me in her mind in order to convince herself she hated me.  Once that was done though she even convinced herself that talking to me in public and being civil would be an issue and ran behind a bouncer at a club… All totally fabricated concerns in her own mind, designed specifically to distance herself from me.  Women are very capable of making you into a new person in their mind, no matter who you actually are in order to justify hating and therefore leaving you.  It’s an amazing skill.  No sentimental remnants of attachment and no guilt, pure conviction that you are a monster despite all evidence.

My value isn’t based on what others think of me.  I pity a woman who manages to find fault in me.  I genuinely feel sorry for her that she is so utterly lost that she cannot see the effort I put into her.  The consideration, care and love.  Which doesn’t change simply because she went off the reservation and somehow found a way to change her feelings.  I still love them.  Even the ones I was angry with.  Even the ones who are so, so very wrong-minded that they blame me for their inadequacies.  I still think about them, mostly fondly with a hint of frustration at their shortcomings.  Not all people recognize gold when they find it.  I can’t say that I respect it, but I don’t hate them for it.

I may be a passionate frenzy, but I’m good at it and I have a heart of gold.


Under a Dark Cloud

I find it seriously disturbing that because of the way my disorder can manifest how differently I am treated.  I mean on a less-than-conscious level.  People do it automatically without noticing it.  They don’t give me the same concessions or considerations as they would other friends.

When a friend is hurt, upset or emotional we often immediately do what we can to help, or at least sometimes just put out the offer.  We bake cookies, we watch movies, we spend time, share a drink perhaps.  Maybe we go out to the range and blow off steam by shooting up pictures of their ex.  Whatever works.  However I have noticed that in dealing with me (or others with depressive, dysphoric or elevated conditions) people act as though they are on a minefield.  Perhaps they expect me to react differently.  Maybe they feel as though they will get sucked into my deeply involved psychological issues.  Or perhaps it’s as simple as just not having the energy to deal with me.  However the reaction isn’t merely distancing and indifference, no it gets much worse.  People will treat you like an asshole.  An interloping shit disturber.  They will call you names and get into arguments with you, maybe only on social media but this will probably result in them unfriending you and then never talking to you again.  They get downright hostile with you because even though they know that you are bipolar and prone to fits of manic dysphoria they just don’t care that there is an inherent underlying issue.

They don’t care that your reckless behaviour lately is the fallout of self-medicating.  Nope, you’re a dangerous drunken jerk and you piss them off.  You could endanger their family so why don’t you just go fuck yourself?  Forget that we’ve been friends since high school.  Forget that they should know better why you are acting out this way… Forget all that.  You’re not welcomed there anymore and your problems don’t fucking matter.  I want to say that people are selfish and self-interested, self-preserving and judgmental assholes.  Well, I can say that because they are, to me.  Yet you see them with their neighbour whom they’ve known for a few months and their cat has been hit on the highway.  You see them make soup or bake a cake for this person.

I don’t expect you to bake me a fucking cake.  However, when you have a full and busy day of people screaming at you and your boss riding you, think about how you feel.  Now imagine that while combating a demon all day.  One that can possess you and make you say and do strange impulsive shit that makes enemies out of even your closest friends.  Imagine that.  Think about what that must be like.  Wondering if the next time your boss yells at you you won’t come out of a rage-haze fifteen minutes later eating a sandwich with cut and bruised hands covered in his blood.  Having no clue what happened until you hear him crying under his desk into the phone for 911.  Wondering why you are sitting on his berber tapioca carpet crosslegged and eating the sandwich his wife packed for him.  You know it’s his because he has one everyday wrapped in wax paper and you always buy fast-food…

Fortunately the violent extreme episodes have been limited to three but you don’t know what triggers the ‘fight’ portion of your “fight or flight” response.  And once that switch gets flipped it has one setting: Maximum.  Also, you won’t remember it.  Except when fight turned into flight…  Out of love?  No clue, I digress.

So everything you can do I can do drowning.  Or on fire.  Or however you want to look at it.  Here are two of the primary reasons that I know I’m more intelligent than most: genetics, can’t discount that, and war.  I have developed a keenly honed sense of cunning from having been at war with myself for my entire life.  Imagine being locked in a battle against someone with every advantage that you have exactly.  You share the same mind and you have to outwit them.  My mind is an arms race.  So yes, I’m sorry that my border skirmish is spilling over into reality and causing some heartbreak on your end.  To wit:

“I need you to hear. I need you to see.
That I have had all I can take
And exploding seems like a definite possibility
To me
So Pardon me while I burst into flames.
I’ve had enough of the world, and its people’s mindless games
So Pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me. I’ll never be the same.”
-Excerpt of lyrics from “Pardon Me” by Incubus.

Oh, and my mind is like a junkyard.  I keep everything.  I remember every lyric.  I remember every slight, every conflict and insult.  I don’t hold grudges but the heart can only take so much.  Especially given my junkyard gallery of horrors, populated with the social atrocities inflicted upon me by friends.  The alienation.  The double standard and guilt.  The regret.

Most of this precipitated by nothing more than a bout of depression or dysphoria, or a combination of the two. Or maybe a flawed medication. One wrong phrase or a few sentences and people are more than willing to throw a whole person away. Because… feelings. And people wonder why disenfranchised loners with psychological problems shoot up a mall. Because you push them out into the wilderness by themselves after years of friendship for no reason at all whatsoever after a single conversation like nothing about your relationship ever mattered and never talk to them again…
I can’t help but totally commiserate with these people. You wonder why the world is broken? Because you are actively breaking it.

Compassion.  For everyone, especially those of us who desperately need it the most.  Need it the most because whether you see it or not we are taking on your pain at the same time as all of the above.  I’m reminded of a small exchange in “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”:

Charlie: There is so much pain. And I-I-I don’t know how to not notice it.
Dr.Burton: What’s hurting you?
Charlie: No, not… not me. It’s them! It’s… it’s everyone. It never stops. Do you understand?

This hit me pretty hard.  Because it’s true.  Our empathy is too strong and it drives our passions.  It’s the reason that we get so upset about good causes and stopping all the injustice in the world.  It’s the reason that we care so deeply and in turn become so wounded when we aren’t given that care.  We know that it’s hard to see through the conflagration and chaos that we drag around like our own personal pet hurricane.  Please just know that it’s there and be nice to us.  Know that we are hurting.  In ways you have yet to imagine.


I understand why people need routine in their lives.  Especially with psychological disorders, it becomes a handrail guiding you through your problems and providing stability.  Personally however, I find that routine is actually more destructive and I like to use an old Japanese saying that applies to melee combat (martial arts) as well as insouciance:  You can be the dock, hard and firm, unmoved by the waves.  Or you can be the boat, riding on the tide.  When the typhoon comes the dock will break and the boat will wash away.
The boat comes away unharmed, whereas the dock facing a greater force invariably snaps.  Think of time as a force, because it is.  It moves in one direction, forward.  It may move at a constant rate though we populate it with the things that we require of it.  Now imagine our populated time as an assembly line.  Assembly lines are a magical way to manage time effectively.  This is the very vision of routine.  However, one small break in the routine, one failure in the assembly line and things begin to build up… Under the pressure of the force of time the assembly line breaks.  The point is:  if you manage your time too rigidly, with a strenuous and overpopulated routine and you fail to meet the demands of it, it will ruin you in far worse ways than having no routine at all.

The above are the reasons why I manage my life as a series of nows.  I don’t always do this particularly well, and yes it can clash with the routines set out for me by others (work, activities, family, etc.) but if something goes wrong it is immediately followed by another now.  No build-up, no force of time.  The only mitigating factor is how many nows are available for me to burn on any given thing.  If I don’t have enough time I simply postpone.  Life has too many obligations and stressors I really don’t need the management of my time to cause me anxiety.

So, for those of you who feel as though you desperately need to grasp at a scheduled routine in order to make your life work, I respect it but implore you to consider an alternative.  The one major tip that I will give you is this:  if you have appointments or obligations to be somewhere by a given time, make sure that you are there with loads of time to spare.  I mean show up to everything half an hour early.  Even work.  I show up an hour early for work every day.  But like a kid watching the clock after last recess the moment the clock ticks off I am out of there like a shot.  Straight home to my room to tear off my pants and eat while watching “Homeland”.  That time is mine.  I use it to deflate from the day.  I figure if my sleep is patchy to begin with getting up a half hour earlier (and sleeping maybe a half hour earlier, maybe…) isn’t going to fuss my life up all that much.  So why not be early?  Give yourself alone time in the car in the parking lot with a coffee (tea? yuck…) and a news article (cigarette?!) to relax before whatever you have to do, it might help your demeanor, it may show whomever you are meeting a huge amount of reliability and initiative.

This is the closest thing I have to a routine, a stubborn unwillingness to be merely “on time” for anything.  I must be early.  You know what though?  Like honesty, it pays off big time.  The downside to this is that when I am actually late (on time) for anything I get really upset with myself, which is ultra-rare but has happened a few times.

Just some perspective and advice, take it or leave it.  Not like I am a life guru by any stretch of the imagination.

Shining Imperfection

We all go about our lives as though we are perfection incarnate.  As though we have nothing wrong with us and nothing to hide.  Meanwhile we have a closet full of skeletons that we would rather nobody see and kindly request that they ignore the little man behind the curtain.  Even when things are tumultuous and our imperfections are glaringly obvious we continue this charade.  We even dislike people who seem too perfect.  I’m going to pause here to note that it is because of this little game that we are aware that anyone who seems too perfect has the most to hide.  We know this.  We know it in our gut because we have been playing for our whole lives that the people who seem effortlessly flawless are seriously troubled.  Extra disturbed.  The pillars of the community who actually have a glint in their smile and turn out to have a cache of child pornography.  Yet, we always say the same thing: “He seemed so normal, so perfect!  He had a wonderful life!  Two point five kids and a doting wife!  I knew something had to be wrong!”

This is why I respect people who are evidently damaged.  People who have given up on the game.  I don’t mean that they have given up on life, they just embrace themselves for what and who they really are.  Like me.  I always face the phrase: you can’t let your disorder define you.  Okay, cool.  If that’s true then you can’t let your gender and race define you.  Not fair?  Why not?  Oh… It places you automatically in a political social sphere?  Fucking strange that.  Sure, I could hide mine, play the perfect game.  Yet, you see I’m not a liar.  So you can pretend to be perfect and act like nothing is wrong but that’s a little bit like ignoring your issues in the hopes that they will sort themselves out.  Hot tip: they won’t.  Usually they pile up.  Best way to deal with something is to tackle it head on.  I am always dealing with bipolar.

It’s amazing how people treat you when you don’t want to play the game.  It makes them uncomfortable.  They are so innured in it from having played it since birth that they are astounded.  Shocked.  I’ve had women hop into my roller-coaster cart for the ride and women fairly fly out.  People become stand-offish.  How dare you not follow the rules!  Don’t you know that you are supposed to play at being perfect?!  You might expose their imperfections!  Which you invariably do.  It can be a lonely road.  When it isn’t though, it can be very rewarding or very dangerous.  When you meet others who don’t play you can become great support for one another.  Or adversely you can become a downward spiral of futility and ever growing morbid fascination.

The irony in all of this is that when you embrace those things about you that are less than admirable, you learn to overcome them.  You compensate and grow.  Making you an actually stronger and better person.  You cannot fix a problem that you have not first identified and diagnosed.  Pretending that you do not have problems is tantamount to not solving them.  Therefore, admitting that you are not perfect is the quickest route to becoming so.

I’m actually rather thankful for my disorder.  It comes with a fair amount of gifts.

Balanced On One Hand

I had an epiphany with respect to my girlfriend: she isn’t crazy.  In fact, she is by far the most sane woman I have ever dated.  The second most sane is still a good friend of mine and her nickname is in fact “Crazy”.  No joke.  I’m forever a Gomez seeking a Morticia, a Joker in search of his Harley.  I’m a wild spark leaping for the stray black powder around the keg.  All of my relationships play out like Sid and Nancy, with or without drugs…

My girlfriend is regular folk.  There is nothing at all wild about her.  Which has pros and cons.  You might recall my complaints about being stale and bored.  Well I’m not.  It only occurred to me just recently that I was feeling that way because I am used to things being more chaotic.  Having a woman that picks at me until something happens, either we argue or we fuck.  Or we argue and fuck.  Then we make up and fuck.  It’s a whole process.  With my girlfriend we are copacetic.  Even keeled.  We fuck without event.

Toward that end, if you remember from this post I am very skilled with my hands.  I was able to give my new girlfriend, at the young age of twenty-two a vaginal orgasm that lasted no less than five minutes.  As it persisted I would whisper: “A little more…” and it would go on for another twenty seconds.  When it was over I said to her: “This is likely the best thing that has happened in your life thus far.”  She agreed.  The reason that this is news and noteworthy is because she was having intermittent mental blockage of her orgasms.  She would get right to the edge, over and over and then stop herself.  Also, generally speaking, younger women (even ones that masturbate) aren’t open to rolling vaginal orgasms.  I’ve found it to be nearly impossible to produce in anyone under the age of twenty-eight even with stellar technique.  I was going to attempt to bind this to a follow-up clitoral orgasm, however it seemed like once I released the rolling vaginal one she almost instantly lost steam.  Good enough though, for a start at any rate.  I actually pity her a little in a way.  You might wonder why, well the answer to that is simple:  She is very young and I am long in the tooth.  She is in her first actual relationship (I will note here that I am not her first sexual partner) I am just adding another nickel to my first dollar.  Should things go south for us (knock on wood) it will be probably a while before she encounters another man who can do this for her.  Men are notoriously horrible in the bedroom.  Largely because they are convinced everything is done with their penis.  I won’t claim to the be the best, though at least I put the work in with some skill.  This is, from what I understand, a rare quality to find in a man.

There are obvious reasons for why I have put the time into the aforementioned.  My bipolarity has found me in enough situations in order to practice it.  One of my favourite symptoms is the hypersexuality.  Women and cigarettes are the only two drugs that I just can’t quit.  If I was told that women were giving me dick cancer I would quit them, but even if I was told I had lung cancer I wouldn’t stop smoking.  So, big tobacco wins in the end.  Too bad “big vagina” isn’t how we refer to the porn industry.  Though, to be fair not all porn has something to do with vag…

So, my girlfriend isn’t crazy.  I feel as though she might be centering me.  She has become like a focal point.  I have two problems with this:  What happens when Jack feels trapped?  What happens when I no longer have her to center me?


Fresh Outlook

I find myself compelled to write a follow-up post to yesterday’s.  Not as an addendum to the two featured subjects: pregnancy delirium and my crazy life.  Rather, I wanted to focus a little more on the woman in my life.  I am hardwired to be skeptical about everything.  My depression and dysphoria has given me a habitually bleak and wicked outlook on life.  Toward the end of my last post I noted that because of my habitual negativity and my fear that people will discover that I am empty inside I subconsciously push them away.  Despite needing them.  This coupled with my hypomanic behaviour has made all of my past relationships very short.  And may I just say: there have been a lot.  Far too many.  So after as many as I’ve seen be they much younger or older, tall or short, blonde or brunette, slender or athletic, voluptuous or petite… it gets a little difficult to be hopeful about one so very young and inexperienced, especially after the last two I’ve been through.  The wife and the rotten, lying psycho mother.  Both having been the worst betrayers I have dealt with.  I love with my whole heart so when I get stepped on it hurts the most.

The woman in my life now doesn’t deserve to be treated to my cynical heart.  She doesn’t deserve the twice bitten thrice shy.  Rather umpteen thousand times bitten and a  gofuckyourselfillionths times shy, but whatever… I do it to myself.  I have to stop using my heart as an icebreaker.  She doesn’t deserve this especially given that I am her first actual solid relationship.  Yeah.  No, seriously.  A man who has slept with just shy of a hundred women with a girl two thirds his age in her first relationship… I couldn’t make this shit up.  Actually, as a writer I wish I could, hey… This would be decent romance schlock given that 50 shades was actually popular…  Anyways, I digress.  If I’m going to do this, which apparently I am because I have been, I should do it right.  Not half-hearted.  She deserves the best from me and she is very sweet.  I would be a total douchebag to just be a jaded old asshole and dismiss her and end up hurting her feeling and perpetuate the cycle.  How do I know that this isn’t going to be the one?  Why have I even been having any doubts?  Why am I dragging my feet?  I don’t even need to convince myself that she’s great, it’s completely evident.  We love each other.  We say so.  So what is my issue?

Anyway, I just felt the need to get some of that off of my chest.  She’s a treasure and if I had any sense I would hang on to her and treat her right.

That Guy.

Now that I find myself in my mid to late thirties without the ability to procreate I am at ever growing odds with those of my peers that still do.  Especially women.  Women in their thirties who are pregnant or have very young children are far crazier than I have ever been (including while on recreational drugs) and will ever yet be.  They completely lose their sense of humour.  I happen to be completely against overpopulation as an aside and I have always been fairly vocal about this both in person with my friends and on social media.  Though, I do have a sense of humour about things and like to cobble together little jokes and memes on facebook about not having children.  About how it saves money and stress.  I’m that guy.

I know that for the most part the average person looks at me and probably thinks that I’m a freak.  That I am unusual.  That I am a man in his late thirties dating a twenty-two year old, living an apparent bachelor life while spending his money on designer luxury items.  I’ll tell you this:  It’s really nice not to have a bunch of cheap, broken shit covered in dirt and snot.  It’s nice to have sex with someone with no stretchmarks who is utterly obsessed with me.  There’s another thing, my girlfriend is five foot eleven and weighs a hundred and thirty pounds.  She’s a very slender girl but genetically so.  I found myself becoming bored with her and now I feel guilty because truthfully she is a total blessing.  For all intents and purposes my life is perfect.  Except it isn’t.

Back to the original point, baby crazy thirty-something women.  I would put this on a scale of somewhere between dysphoric dementia and schizophrenia, or a cocktail of the two.  Pregnant women, specifically in their thirties are completely unreasonable, somewhere past the bridezilla level of berzerk.  I’m talking about women that I have known for a long time, that I have history with.  Women that I have trusted, who have trusted me (even though I was unusual).  So it comes as kind of a blow when interacting as per usual with them and joking as we would when suddenly things take a dramatic turn for the fucking psychotic and I wind up in never talking to you ever again territory.  I’m not totally surprised, hormones and such.  I just wish that this was a recognised thing.  I’m okay with never talking to them again as well.  If you can’t reign it in long enough not to make permanent decisions while you are on a constant PMS cycle I think never talking to you again is just peachy.

Back to how I’m that guy.  How my life should be perfect but isn’t.  I see my girlfriend only on the weekends because I live out in the middle of nowhere, which is where she originally is from.  Except she lives in the nearest major center for work which is two hours away.  Not that big a deal but not worth a daily commute.  I live with three other guys which would be alright seeing as we pay very little to live here except the original signer has his wife here on certain weekends and if I have sex in the house at those times she hears it.  Upon hearing this she freaks out and needs to drive back to her house which is also in the nearest major center… No joke.  At midnight, rather than knock on the door and say: “Hey, we can hear you.”  She makes her husband drive her two hours away without saying a word to me.  We are adults for fucks sake.  I pay rent for a room in a house.  A room that has walls and a door.  If you hear sex, either ignore it, turn on some light music or honestly just go fuck yourself because I really don’t care.  The rent is paid.  The young guy above me fucks in his room and I don’t complain.  If you are this sensitive I think that you probably shouldn’t be married.

I’ve always been a passionate person.  I’m not simply talking about love-making here.  I am talking about the things in which I believe and those things I defend.  The causes for which I fight.  There are times when I rant and go into diatribes, kick up a fuss over things.  I do this because I care about these things.  It makes me sad that people don’t see it this way.  They only see anger and vitriol.  What they don’t realize is that the worst place to be is failing miserably when the people who care the most are silent.  Because when the people who care for you are silent they have given up on you.  When I am ranting about women’s rights or marriage equality it’s because I haven’t given up.  I am a friend and an ally.  Yet I think that people genuinely just see the frustration and assume that I’m an angry asshole.  Which sometimes might actually be true.  Worse still is the glaring silence I receive from everyone else.  Good thing the medication works or I would be dead.  Guaranteed.

More toward ranting, I noticed that I am so in the habit of attaching myself to negative thoughts about things that I dislike that I won’t allow myself to stop.  I am perpetually bouncing from one subject to the other writing diatribes in my head.  Because of this and the way I function I am utterly cut off.  I am difficult to be around.  I am alone.  Some, maybe even most of the time I don’t care.  Except that when I do it matters more than anything in the world.  I have dug a moat around myself and made it impossible for anyone to be close to me.  Partially because I am so habitually negative from the former depression but also from the fear that they will discover that I am hollow.  This is somewhat revelatory for me.  Perhaps this is cliché?

I see the Internet exploding with ‪#‎semicolonproject‬ and at first it seems like a great idea. I would run out and get mine too except that it’s a little too much like eternally visibly branding yourself with a very detrimental psychological disorder. Which you might be trying to raise awareness for, though people are still going to be judgemental and distrustful of you. Especially seeing as you are saying out loud “at one time I very nearly killed myself”. That’s not really something one announces to people they don’t know.
I like the concept but I pity those who are putting it into practice. I commiserate, but this is a stigma magnet.  Seriously think it over before getting it done, you are turning an unidentified minority into a visible minority…