I went to church this morning. It’s sort of like a mega-church. Well, one or two steps shy of being a mega-church. Anyway, going into it, I guess I had hopes that I would receive divine wisdom, that somehow, I would receive a revelation.
But I was wrong.
They condense the service down to an hour. And when you place manmade restrictions on your church services, it’s hard for the Holy Spirit to move. I don’t know. People have such busy lives, we fit God in for only an hour a week. Or, as a friend once told me…when all you want to do is talk, the Holy Spirit will take a seat.
I had hoped that going to church this morning would make me feel better. But it didn’t. I feel as empty as I ever was! The sermon today was having joy in the midst of suffering. I’ve never been able to make sense of that.
I’m not being persecuted for religious beliefs; I’m going through a tough time because of my stupidity.
The same goes with the law versus legalism versus grace. Can anyone make sense of it? Can anyone fathom it?
I’m not running the church down. They serve a purpose. They have a ten-piece band. And throughout the worship portion of service, it was stand up, sit down; stand up, sit down. Finally, I just remained in my seat. Why do members of the congregation stand during the emotional portions of a song?
The Lord owns my heart. Everything I have is His. I want to be a faith healer for Him. But right now, I just don’t see any way that I’m going to get there.
Lord, I know that you want me to see the bright side of what I’m going through; to have joy in the midst of my sorrow. Forgive me, Lord, but right now I just can’t. I miss my wife and family. Lord, if you don’t help me, I can’t get through this.
Suicide is a feeling of hopelessness; a feeling that nothing is going to get better. Feeling like the rut you’re in will last the rest of your life. Despite your best efforts, the walls of the canyon you’re mired in, stretch upwards for miles.
Webster classifies rut as a noun: a habit or pattern of behavior that has become dull and unproductive but is hard to change. It leaves little to wonder why alcoholics stay alcoholics, and drug addicts stay drug addicts.
People preach Christianity as if the moment they repent or give their lives to the Lord, they will stop facing temptation. As I heard one preacher say, “get saved ’cause then you won’t. I got saved and kept on doing.”
We teach morality without love; anger without mercy. We teach get saved, don’t sin, and conveniently forget the words of Jesus Christ when he said, “I have told you these things that you may find peace in me. For in this world, you will have trouble. But take heart, I have overcome the world.”
Sadly, too many of us lose heart long before we finish the race.
There is no equal balance of sleep with me. I either sleep too little, or too much. I can’t sleep at night. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’m here at family’s and my wife and children are at home, but when everyone goes to bed, I get anxious. I can’t sleep. I lay down and toss and turn. Maybe the house is too quiet. Maybe the silence reminds me of jail; the silence I heard apart from the occasional iron door slamming shut or the hollering voice barking orders. I know I spent only three days in jail, but still. I start messaging people, hoping someone’s awake and will see it. It’s all for naught mostly. I’m holding on by the thinnest thread of faith.
I fell back into old habits of viewing and downloading porn. I don’t know what made me think I can control it; one video becomes another, becomes another, becomes another. If I were addicted to a harsh drug like cocaine or heroin, I’d be dead by now.
Do you ever look at your life and ask, how did I get here?
I’ve been asking myself that a lot here lately.
I can’t shake this feeling of worthlessness, because I am worthless.
You know, there just aren’t the words to beguile the way that I feel right now.
I even had an erotic story all lined up to write and publish. Not now.
A friend of mine asked me not long ago if I have any goals for myself; wants?
No. The only thing I’ve done thus far is just exist. I guess not wanting anything is easier than wanting something and not getting it.
So, now, I’m turning a blind eye to the porn. I don’t want it anymore. I haven’t wanted it for quite some time. Here’s to day one of sobriety!
Heavenly Father, if you don’t help me, I can’t get through this! If you don’t give me the strength the stand, I will fall! Help me, Lord Jesus! I’m sorry. Please forgive me, Lord! In Jesus name, amen.
The years I’ve spent being a heavy user of porn have taken their toll. The last few days-maybe even longer-have not been fun. I guess what I am going through is to be expected: irritability, anxiety, lethargy, stress, difficulty sleeping. All of these are signs of addiction withdrawal.
I don’t think that I have ever experienced anything as bad as this. Apparently, symptoms can last up to six months. My brain is rewiring, and with it comes a whole slew of shit I have to deal with. Trepidation about the future, being among them.
I was confident about the future. Combine these withdrawal symptoms with my mom’s constant need to lecture me-yeah, not so much now.
I looked up hand-bra GIFs on the internet and clicked off of them real quick. I’m not really all that interested in opening that bag of snakes. I hope God doesn’t fault me for going through this. If He isn’t going to deliver me outright, at least give me the strength to stand and weather this storm.
There’s a Facebook AT&T advertisement of a woman doing a happy little dance to music that sounds like Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky”. I’d watch it over and over again, because I found it slightly erotic. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I found a guy on Facebook marketplace who is selling vintage erotic books. Satan got the best of me and I began trolling him without the intention of buying. I asked if the were very descriptive and this is what he sent:
I don’t know about you, but whoever’s mom that is, sounds like she is getting the proper throat fucking! Who would want to sit and watch their mom get fucked anyway? Not me!
I shouldn’t have done that, I know. If only life had a fast forward button!
In my last post “Dog Down”, I talked about how I repented of my sin to pornography. It marks about the hundredth time that I have. I know myself all too well. I know that I am human.
That isn’t to say that I intend to return to watching porn. It is to say, however, I have been porn-sober since mid to late December. And just like any other addict, I am counting the days.
What I think about…
I would be lying if I said I never think of porn, because I do. These thoughts don’t dominate my mind, but like a mouse sneaks into a farmhouse, porn slips through the cracks of my mind. And far too often, they leave horny and frustrated.
Each time, the enemy whispers in my ear…just a minute, a second’s worth of viewing. Don’t you enjoy the sights and sounds of sex? Wasn’t it you who said you love watching the woman’s leg placement as she’s taking a pounding?
It’s true, I do. But I can’t give the devil that foothold. When I was arrested in late December, I think I had upwards to over 400 porn videos stored on my phone. And I hid them away, and refused to allow my wife to be anywhere near it. I was ashamed of my addiction and the sensuality and intimacy it had stolen from me.
And I let it.
I paid more attention to my porn collection than I did my wife. To avoid confusion and frustration in searching for a “favorite” video, I separated them into categories: cuckold, interracial, amateur, massage, vintage, etc. You name it, the list goes on.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that amateur porn was more entertaining than studio. For one thing, women in studio porn never seem to be wet. Men’s dicks are as dry as bone. And what I gather from women I’ve talked to, my wife included, dry sex hurts like a bitch!
Watching cuckold porn, for instance, led me to wonder what it must be like for the husband to stand by and film his wife having sex with another man. I can’t use the word “make love”, because, for one, I hate that term; and two, let’s call it what it is: lust.
Just like when a pastor uses the word “intimate” to describe your relationship with God. It just sounds corny and weird. I have a close relationship with the Father. Probably not as close as what I would like, but I’ll get there.
So, yeah! I think of the porn videos I had on my phone. I think about the boss who has his subordinate’s wife bent over the desk. I think of the woman who took multiple black lovers while her hapless husband stood off to the side and watched with a sullen expression on his face. I think of the wife who uttered three forbidden words of I love you to her mate, while he pushed his larger-than-normal phallus deep inside her petite frame on the living room couch.
My dick is starting to inflate. Perhaps it’s time to move on.
The term “hall pass” has gained traction in American society. For those of you who don’t know, a hall pass is when one spouse or another, is given the permission to have sex with another should the opportunity present itself. Typically, couples will set their sights so high, it’s damn near impossible to attain. And I only mention “hall pass” because of something I saw on The Bert Show’s Facebook feed.
I can’t find the video on YouTube, so I’ll try to make it as short and sweet as I can. A woman had emailed in, detailing how she and her husband had a common agreement that should the opportunity for a hall pass arise, they could have sex with someone else without any repercussions.
How naive is that? No repercussions! There is always repercussions to infidelity! If you’re not running the risk of an STD, then you’re carrying the stress and burden of the act, brought on by guilt.
This woman was trying to make it sound as if it were no big deal, that her husband was supportive of her getting fucked by a gorgeous former manager! If saying, “whatever! Just don’t tell me about it!” was a greenlight, then by all means, fuck away!
But somehow, in my analytical mind, I doubt it. Has the husband cheated, and in a subtle way, is allowing his wife the same thrill? Possibly. He could have a cuckold fetish. Whichever way it is, their marriage could be doomed to failure.
Of course, it goes without saying, that upon hearing this, the sinister side of my mind went into overdrive thinking of a possible story. Back in my prime of writing sex stories (not on this blog, but my old, old one), I had gathered quite the following. Some readers had even offered that I should write short E-stories and make some money off my talent. If writing detailed descriptions of sex, basing it on what you see is talent, then I’m game.
But I never did. And probably for good reason.
I think of writing about sex, too. Paul wrote to take every thought captive in the name of Jesus Christ. Is it a sin to have bad thoughts? Can we help our thoughts any more than we can help whether or not a bird decides to shit on our heads? For me, writing is therapeutic. And I have heard of psychiatrists recommending that their patients write down their thoughts in detailed description.
So if I wrote a sex story, even a short one, and marked the post as private and kept it for my eyes only, would it still be a sin? I think I know my answer to that one.
If you want to know the truth, I hate porn. I despise it! It is the bane of my existence. I don’t know if there are any statistics on the matter, but I would hazard a decent guess that porn has obliterated a lot of marriages. Whether it is the man or woman in the relationship that struggles with the addiction, it perverts the mind into thinking that beauty is only skin deep.
And that is an image that neither husband or wife can live up to.
One of my favorite topics to surf and download was vintage porn. The kind where women had big hair and hairy snatches. Years ago, I worked with a woman who had an 80s retro style haircut. I teased her that she had blow job wings. When she asked me what that was, I explained to her that is when the curls on the side of the woman’s head flow forward and back while she’s sucking dick.
In retro porn, you hardly ever see the man being a gentleman and holding her hair behind her head for her. Come to think of it, I’m lucky she didn’t turn me in for sexual harassment.
You should have seen me on the day that I found a porn video I remembered from my youth. Redtube had cut it down some, but I was so giddy, I couldn’t download it fast enough! The stage was set for a black-haired beauty, resting on the couch and faking sickness. Her breasts were large and fake; her body bronzed by the sun with no tanlines. Wonderfully sculpted pubic hair concealed her sex.
Cue the man and the raunchy, cliche music for that time period, and a prostitute has just earned a couple thousand dollars!
And that’s all pornography is, isn’t it? Legalized prostitution? If you want to buy a hooker and you don’t want to get busted for it, just say that you’re filming a movie when the cops come knocking at your door.
When sex becomes your occupation, how long before your most primal desires become meaningless? A number of porn stars, most notably, Randy Spears, turned their backs on pornography and surrendered their lives to Christ. Men and women alike detail not only the humiliating act of having sex in front of others, but using drugs to numb the pain.
Pornography is a billion dollar plus industry. And while feminists rage against the sexualization of women, I’d like to know how many of them view porn on a regular basis. I’d look them straight in the eye and tell them they are hypocrites! Of course, being ashamed of their own iniquity would keep them from telling the truth.
Men like Hugh Hefner have been the envy of most any man, and succeeded in debasing women into being nothing more than sexual objects. The fact that skeletons continue to haunt the Playboy mansion is another subject entirely. Porn stars, men and women alike, who claim that having sex for cash is about sexual liberation and exploring your dark (because, you know, everybody has one), conveniently ignore the wife who cries herself to sleep at night, next to her husband who slumbers with an erection and refuses to use it on her.
Sadly, I have been guilty of this.
Thanks to the Internet, even amateurs can get their fifteen minutes of fame. Have you ever wondered who uploads those videos? Obviously, sometimes it’s the jaded ex-lover or ex-spouse. But what of the cuckold videos?
I recall downloading a video of an attractive white school teacher, having sex in the sanctity of her marital bed. The bed springs popped and squeaked, the headboard pounded the wall, and the wife’s inconsolable cries reverberated throughout the room. As the husband moves closer to the bed and alongside them, and as the black man’s massive, muscular frame presses down on her, she digs her fiery red fingernails into his chiseled, rock hard ass; forcing his horse-like phallus deeper into her womb. With her red hair splayed out like a fan beneath her, her green eyes flash to the camera, she holds out her hand and extends a defiant middle finger to her silent husband.
Now, imagine if a student or a member of the faculty or a concerned parent stumbled upon that video. Unlike one of the starlets, adorned with glitz and glamour, the school teacher’s reputation would be tarnished and her career in ruins.
And never knowing the true circumstances that journeyed the sweet and innocent schoold teacher to the infamous video of her consensual infidelity, many a husband have shamefully let go of their primal urges. And while we compartmentalize our proclivity, we ignore our wives, crying themselves to sleep.
I feel so down and so depressed. I guess I have a good reason to be. It’s hard to hold a smile, or even fake one. My family can tell. They hug me and tell me they love me.
When I was in jail, I repented of my sin of pornography. It’s pretty sad that the the word “PornHub” comes up in the word prediction on my phone’s keyboard. I spent so much time watching porn, and forgot about my family; I forgot what it took to be a father and a husband.
Addiction will do that to you! It changes your priorities. Doesn’t matter what your Achilles heal is. Everything seems to be a trigger. I’ve had sexual thoughts. But I dare not write them down. I fear God in more ways than can be understood.
And perhaps that’s the way He wants it. I don’t know. It’s His universe. Six months ago, I would have been pissed at Him. Now, I’m only thankful for His grace, and getting me out of jail. I’m thankful for His provision for my wife and children.
I thought about the caretaker yesterday, and tried to see into his mind. I couldn’t. Is he dead? Is he alive? Hunting vampires and werewolves in the wicked forests beyond? I couldn’t tell.
I did, however, see the statue of an angel; its wings drooping, the contours of the cement softened and eroded by weather and age. At its feet, inscribed on a rusty steel plate, is a scripture from Romans 8: As it is written, “For your sake, we face death all day long; we are considered sheep to be slaughtered.”
I spent three days in jail just before Christmas. Solitary confinement. They call it the detox unit. I call it solitary confinement. There’s nothing worse you can do to a man but leave him to his thoughts and regrets.
And even though I am staying with family, I am still left with my thoughts. Oh, man, do I ever have them!
I’m afraid to go to sleep most times. I’m afraid of what dreams I may have. They’re never pleasant. Usually, I can recall my dreams, but never these. As I write this, my heart pounds in my chest.
I play video games to keep my mind occupied. But even then, I am left with a feeling of guilt. I have plenty to feel guilty for; plenty to feel ashamed of.