Inspired by Aching: Memoirs of an Unrequited Sex Addict

This isn’t in the book, but it could be. I’ve paraphrased and condensed some aspects of a dull chapter:

I’m doing women the women of my city a favor by giving up on dating. No one should have to deal with me. Aside from what a terrible person I am, my body should be banned from contact with others. Do you think I’m exaggerating? Read on.

I get rashes of unknown origin that pop up all over my frame. Most are on my torso, but sometimes they’re on my thighs and arms. I don’t know how to prevent them because I don’t know what causes them. They’re highly noticeable. I don’t know if they’re contagious. I rub athlete’s foot medication on them to make them go away.

Since early adolescence, I’ve dealt with acne. It continues into my late thirties. While I rarely get blemishes on my face, I continue to get them all over my legs and ass. The pimples I get on my ass are huge. They hurt. I get ten to fifteen at a time. Again, I don’t know how to prevent them.

My feet are horrible. If I don’t rub lotion on them a few times per day, they become pumice stones. I could use a belt sander on the calluses I get. They crack and bleed sometimes. Worse than the calluses are my toenails, which I have to file down and douse in anti-fungal agents to prevent them from becoming green talons. My efforts aren’t enough. What a partner would notice most is the stench from my feet. I’ve tried since childhood to manage this. Nothing has worked.

Adding this grotesque portrait are the lipomas all over my body. Two doctors have told me they’re just fatty deposits and I shouldn’t worry about them. Anyone touching me would notice them quickly. They feel weird and could easily freak out a woman close enough to brush against them. My hope is that my ugly, aging tattoos would distract her.

Each day I piss on myself several times. My urethra leaks for up to an hour after each piss I take. No matter how many times I shake, I still piss on myself a little after I zip up my fly. Consequently, my crotch always has a urine odor to it. Oh, and I have digestive issues as well. My stomach gurgles constantly and I fart all day long. I have to shit two or three times during the first hour I’m awake. Delightful.

The worst is yet to come, so to speak. Should some woman get to the point of sexual contact with me, she’d get to meet my five-and-a-half-inch, crooked, malfunctioning cock. It might be six inches on a really good day. I know it’s smaller than it used to be. It lilts strongly to the left and curves downward. Most importantly, it doesn’t get particularly hard unless I fill myself with ED medication. Without the medication, it’s useless. If someone stops stroking or sucking, it goes limp almost immediately. I can’t get hard enough to penetrate. I can’t stay hard long enough to put on a condom. When I do manage to slide inside, I can’t feel anything and I have no way of knowing if I’m still hard. When I pull out, I lose my erection. ED medication helps me somewhat. It doesn’t help me from coming too soon, which happens about once out of every three attempts. My orgasms are somehow anticlimactic.

All of this comes in a thirty-nine-year-old, five-foot-five-inch package. I get angry with people who suggest I should keep trying. Hell, I feel guilty for putting the prostitutes I visit through having to endure me. I always tip well because want them to know I appreciate what they have to go through. They’re taking one for the women of my city.


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