Fieber Ich Morgen.

           “So gentleman, what is on the agenda tonight?” I said as I poured myself my usual two fingers worth of whiskey.

            “Well” my friend Vincent (who we all called Snake) said, “There is always the Bier Stube. You know, that German bar across town. They have a three dollar German beer special tonight.”

            “Thoughts, concerns?” I said to my friend Tyler as I poured Coke into my glass.

            “No, that sounds fantastic. Totally beats drinking in your seventies time machine of a basement.”

            What Tyler had said was true. While my basement was furnished, its base level decorum reeked of the drug inspired brown-yellow design pallet of the early 1970’s. What a strange contradiction this room held I thought to myself as I looked at a picture of Frank Sinatra hanging on my wall.

            Even stranger to my mind’s eye was that I was listening to Scentless Apprentice off of Nirvana’s In Utero, as shortly before hand, I had excused myself to my utility room to take a hit off of my oneie. Grunge was something which I never enjoyed listening to while high. As Grunge only worked its charm for me when I was in a depressed mood.

            But back to my cannabis smoking. While I was never the biggest stoner, at the time, I liked to smoke pot as a way to moderate my drinking as the roar from the tigers of my addiction to alcohol were placated through poly-drug use.

            As I sat on my bar stood chair, the THC began to work its way through the byzantine conduits of my brain. I then drifted off from my friend’s conversation about The White Strips into a thought-play about Neo-Nazis in outer-space fighting the Allied Earth Nations through giant fighting robot based space battles.

            I was brought back into direct consensus when heard the lines “I promise not to sell your perfumed secrets. There are countless formulas for pressing flowers” which in the hydroponic/alcoholic daze I was in I mistook as “I promise not to reveal your secretes. California holds depressing flowers.”

            Damn, pot is too much of an effeminate drug. I thought to myself. At least with alcohol you pay the pied piper in the morning and move on without becoming some strung out, beatnik, hippy. Note to self: quit the drugging as you can get away with it in your teens but these things start to catch up with you in your early twenties. Come on, you should be ashamed of how many Led Zeppelin albums you own on vinyl. Although, who knows, not me, I never lost control…   

            “Fuck Nirvana!” I shout aloud suddenly without provocation. Because of this disturbance, and since I was in the mood to be a totally pretentious dick, I put on Moondog’s Bird’s Lament:

“The only one who knows this ounce of words as just a token, is he who has a tongue to tell but must remain unspoken.”

            After a few moments of group silence I said to my friends. “Ok gents! Let’s finish our drinks and head out.” I took a hold of my glass, “Chin-Chin!”  raised it in a toast, and then downed my drink in a few large gulps. The way in which I gulped my alcohol often worried my family as they decried it as a sign of alcoholism. I mean, from my position I thought drinking in such a manner was alright as, after-all, I drank for the affect, not the taste.  

            As my friends finished their drinks, I snuck off to the bathroom for one more hit of weed in an attempt to sober up. After smoking, and tapping out my oneie into the toilet, I found my friends waiting upstairs. We then jumped into Snake’s Cadillac and roared off into the countryside towards town.

            I sat in the front seat and put the air conditioning on high as – being stoned and a little sunburned- the cool jets felt fantastic on my face. Tyler sat in the backseat and nursed a road beer that he had stolen from my basement refrigerator which we fondly named the ‘War Chest’ as it was where he put our booty after a few instances of stealing extra beers from house parties.  

            After driving for a few minutes, we came across a group of scenester teenagers standing on a street corner casually smoking cigarettes. Tyler was having none of this, as he quickly rolled down his window and screamed a homophobic slur at them. Needless to say, I was disturbed by his behavior. But, whatever, I was far too unfocused to care since I was jamming out to Stevie Ray Vaughan and enjoying the cool air conditioning on my somewhat sunburned face.

            We eventually arrived at the Bier Stube and pulled in post position near the front door. As I got out of the car, I saw that there were a group of bikers smoking outside.

            Why are they smoking outside? Don’t they know that this is a smoke-easy? 

            “Pardon me, sirs.” I said as I slide in-between two rather rugged looking bikers.

            My friends and I walked up to the bar and took our regular seats in front of the tap.

            “Terri my dear.” I waved over to the bartender. “How is it going tonight?”

            “You know, the usual. Just had an interesting conversation before you came in.”

            “What about?” I inquired.

            “What are my short term and long term goals.”

            “What are they?”

            “Don’t have any short term goals. But my ultimate long term goal is death.”

            Terri began to laugh loudly. I joined in with her but my laughter was obviously forced as Terri’s nihilism was emotionally bringing me down. Plus while stoned I never liked to think over the nature of my own mortality. You see, the paranoia from pot smoking got to me in a similar way to how when you think about breathing you actually have to actively breathe until you forget about doing so and the brain takes over once again. That kind of thing but about death. As while high I had to actively force myself to forget that I was mortal and that eventually one day out of the blue I would have a heart attack or something and collapse on the floor. Looking at a door, or a wall, or something trivial from ground level, I’d probably think to myself as my brain shut down, This was all so stupid and pointless. Should have done more with my time. But at least things will get interesting when my adrenal gland releases its payload of adrenochrome. Oh, there we go. Pretty trippy. Au Revoir!    

            “We are the dead Terri.” I sighed after we both stopped laughing. “And since that is the case, mind getting me an ashtray? I’d like to find my way to heaven a little bit more quickly if at all possible.”

            “Sure thing.” Terri said as she pulled out an ashtray from under the bar. “What are you drinking?”

            I look over to my friends and motion to them both with my index finger. “Three dunkels please.”

            “Oh good, you learned your lesson about the Jager.”

            “I’ll never drink that congealed deer blood again. “ I said as I lit a cigarette. 

            And so we sat, drank, and bullshited underneath Nazi arms and memorabilia. By this time of the night, my buzz was settling in nicely.

            Feeling good and numb, I looked up at the glass case over the back bar and saw a picture of Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering which I considered to be a bit too much in terms of Nazi decorations even for a German restaurant to have.

            Then again, the Bier Stube was a place which catered to people who day traveled to the countryside. While you might not think that Nazi artifacts would be good for business. Strangely like most of the other white suburban patrons of the Bier Stube I found them to be rather charming.

            Though Hermann Goering wasn’t the worst offender at the Bier Stube as they also had an autographed photo of Adolf Hitler on the far wall to my left. The menacing visage of the Fuhrer was hung over a collection of S.S. daggers which were without a doubt used during the Second World War. So I guess I can’t complain that much about drinking under a picture of Goering as there were far more sinister images of the Third Reich surrounding me.

            “Hey, how are you?” Someone said to me. I turned around to see that it was Casey, a girl who I haven’t seen since junior high school.

            “Casey, it has been ages. How are you?” I said as I got up from my barstool and gave her a hug.

            “Good. How about yourself?” She said.

            “Can’t complain. Finished up with school and now just sitting around these days, drinking a bit too much, and enjoying my unemployment tour until I can find some work.”

            “That sounds like fun. Wish I had the free time to do all of that.”

            “Actually Casey it isn’t fun as it seems. Being a booze hound is in itself a full time job. Plus I’d like to be able to shit a solid stool for once.”

            We both laughed at that commit.

            “So, I’d love to catch up some time. Mind if I get your number?”

            “Sure, let me write it down.” Casey pulled out a cocktail napkin from the dispenser next to her and wrote down her number. “Call me sometime.” She said as she handed me the napkin. “I am usually free during the day. And from the sound of things you are free whenever. So we’ll grab a drink sometime.”

            “Prefect.” I said as I put the cocktail napkin in my front jean pocket. “I’ll hit you up later.”

            I returned to my seat and finished the rest of my dunkel. “Got her number dude.” I said to Snake.

            “Yeah, can’t wait to see you fuck up that one.” Snake replied.

            “What do you mean?”

            “Come on. You always do this.”

            “Do what?” I asked.

            “Sure, you can get a girl’s number. But by the end of the night you are always too shit faced to remember who it was from.”

            “Honestly,” I said to Snake, “I am not that big of a drunk.” To prove my point I stood up from the bar and toed the tile line across the barroom floor in a self imposed sobriety test. “See?” I said as I touched my index fingers to the tip of my nose, “As sober as an employee at the Christian call center.”

            “Oh yeah, sure, like that proves you’re not drunk. And the Pope shits in the woods.”

            “Snake, the Pope’s expulsion rituals are not relevant to this conversation.” I said with a look of disgust on my face. “But since you brought it up. Don’t you think that over the two thousand years in which the institution of the papacy has been in existence. At least one Pope has, in your words mind you, took a shit in a wooden area? Hell, even the Blessed Pope John Paul the Second probably once took a duce in a wooden area. I mean, considering all that hiking he did earlier in his life.”

            “Talking about the Holy Father’s sole representative on Earth like that.” Snake said in a fake Irish accent. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Just sit the fuck down and have another drink already.” He motioned to Terri to bring me another drink.

            Not ever one to refuse a refill. I retook my seat at the bar.

            “Ah Murphy.” I said to Snake while also donning a fake Irish accent. “You’re a good cop. A damn fine one. But keep gabbing and I’ll kick your West Brit arse.”

            Terri then arrived with my beer.  “Ah many thanks, many thanks, my lady.” I said, still faking the Irish accent.

            I took a sip of my beer, and since I was tired of staring at Goering, my eyes and ears began to wander around the bar. For a Friday, the Bier Stube was rather empty people-wise besides the regulars, the staff, Terri the bartender, that group of bikers I saw when I walked in, and Dawn.

            I had known Dawn since childhood as she was basically the town’s good-time-girl. At forty-eight, this rather short woman with peroxide blonde hair had been through hell and back as she spent most of the 2000’s under the spell of one hell of a methamphetamine addiction. While still abusing drugs, she was like most addicts who through the grace of poverty and time, was able to minimalize her substance abuse to a functioning level. 

            My only vivid memory of Dawn came from when I was twelve years old. I was walking in town with my Father as we were going to the post office to check his P.O. Box. As we walked past the bank we just so happened to cross paths with Dawn.

            “Jack!” Dawn called out to my Father. She then rushed up to greet him with a big embracing hug. “How are you?” She asked.

            “Oh, you know, still shucking and jiving.” My Father said.

            “That’s fantastic. Hey, would you mind if I borrowed five bucks?” Dawn asked my Father.

            “What for?” He inquired.

            “I need to buy a pack of cigarettes.”

            I tried to remember what my Father had said to Dawn in response to her asking him for money to buy cigarettes. I remembered that it was some verbal slight which was part no-you-can-not-borrow-money-from-me, part you-are-a-drugged-out-whore, and part get-the-fuck-away-from-me-and-my-boy. Although, it was packaged in such a manner which made it seem like a positive compliment towards Dawn. My Father was always a master wordsmith in that regard.

            Then all of a sudden, I saw out of the corner of my eye one of the bikers walk up to Dawn and punched her in the face.

            Dawn was knocked off of her barstool and onto the floor. “That’s what you get for fucking my boyfriend!” The biker said as she pointed her finger in Dawn’s face.

            At this moment Dawn went from a state of shock to the realization of what had actually happened to her. She then began to cry.

             “Hey what do you think the big idea is?” Terri shouted from behind the bar. “You might as well beat up a half-dead dog. At least it would be able to put up a fight. Get the fuck out of here.”

            The biker straightened out her leather vest. “Jimmy, let’s go.” And with that the bikers left the bar and roared off into the midnight distance. Probably to hit up Suzie’s Saloon which was a few miles down the road.

            After processing what happened my mood turned quite negative as I hate seeing violence against women. What more, I hate seeing women crying.

            I sat still for a few moments in silence and tried to lose myself in my beer. In spite of my attempt to ignore what happened, the only sound in the bar came from Dawn who, still sitting on the floor, was bawling like a baby. In order to drown out her tears I began drumming my fingers on the bar counter in an irregular beat.

            Eventually after what seemed like a few minutes I couldn’t take this anymore. Fuck it. I thought to myself. I got up from my barstool and picked up Dawn from the floor.

            “Hey, hey, hey. Shh, it’s ok, it’s ok.” I said to her as I held her in my arms. “Everything is going to be ok.” I took a moment to look behind me and I realized that everyone was staring at me. By their grievous looks of what-in-God’s-name-are-you-doing-that-for, I knew that no one was going to call the police. No one cared about what had just happened to this woman. No one wanted to deal with her tears. To their minds, what was worse than Dawn being assaulted was that I was validating her humanity by trying to console her.

            “Hey dude, we’re getting out of here.” Tyler said. “Come on let’s go.”

            “Fuck off!” I shouted.

            Tyler sighed and came over to me.

            “Look man. Let’s get out of here. Come on, Snake will take you home.”

            I sighed heavily and released Dawn from my arms. I then placed my hands on her shoulders.

            “Are you ok?” I asked softly.

            She nodded. Her weeping had subsided to a few sobs here and there.

            “Take care of yourself. Ok?” I said.

            Dawn nodded her head in response. I then left her under the menacing glace of Adolf Hitler and the Bier Stube’s collection of S.S. daggers. I looked back at her one last time as I opened the front door and found that she had somewhat pulled herself together and returned to her seat.

            My friends and I then rode home in more of less silence as we listened to more classic rock off of Snake’s IPod. Snake dropped me off at the edge of my driveway. And once I got out of the car he immediately punched his accelerator to the floor and jetted off towards the red sky which is produced from the light pollution of Chicago.

            That bastard loved the V-8 in his new Caddie.

            I then found my way into my house after forcing the door since I had forgotten to take my house keys. I then had some leftover ham which I cooked in the microwave. I then drank several glasses of water (it's important to stay hydrated!) and then passed out on the couch with my headphones on while listening to Nirvana’s Serve the Servants.

Flowers in my Heart.

There is a flower in my heart that wants to bloom

“Oh no” I say, “I don’t have room for flowers. And besides, what would people think?”

There is a flower in my heart that wants to bloom

“Sorry, there’s only room in there for rye and tobacco. For I feel the need to drown myself with these things.”

There is a flower in my heart that wants to bloom

“Stay away! You’ll only screw up the works. I can only continue on if I am in the wolf.”

Although eventually I concede, as there must be room for a flower

On mornings when nobody’s around I like to take it out and say to it.

“Don’t be sad. I know that you’re still there. I’m not going to let you die.”

And when I put it back it seems to have grown a little bit more beautiful

I find our secrete pact to be moving, as it has driven a grown man to weep

But I never weep

Do you? 

The Drown Woman.

As you drift away on the sea of memories

I run along the shore and shout that I love you

But slowly you slip away

And in spite of life’s frantic pace

I intend to recover some lost ground

And yet from time-to-time I still tend to sink back into the flowing liquid

As unless I do, I feel, I will undoubtedly drown into the sea of memories

When I last saw you I hesitated to leave your side

As it did me good to hide my face into your blouse

For my eyes had become far too disfigured with both regret and love

Thankfully for both of us the sea of memories is filled with forgetfulness

As unless it was we both certainly should have drowned in it

Heterosexuality is the opiate of the masses.

I wish I was gay.
I really, really, wish that I was gay.

So gay, in fact, that I was the king of the gays and held court on all things homosexual at my rainbow colored castle located in epicenter of Boy’s Town.

(Well, maybe not that gay. But at least gay enough to be able to name off several types of white wine without having to pass of my ignorance with a joke about Franzia).

But as unfortunate as it is to say. I’m not gay. And sadly most of you are not either. So let’s just face facts my heterosexual brothers and sisters and admit to ourselves that we lost the war of “which sexual preference has the better sex life” years ago, when MDMA and house music swept the gay community back in the early 1990’s.

Listen, I know for most of us vanilla straight types out there, the poop shoot is a no go zone of alienation. But if my asshole wasn’t so extremely tight I possibly would like giving anal sex a try. As my gay friends have told me some very great things about it.

But as hard as I’ve tried, I can’t fit anything up there.

And boy, how have I tried….

But back onto the topic on hand. I believe that out of all the sexual persuasions out there gay dudes have it the best. As we breeders are sadly cursed to spend our evenings in with our lovers doing stupid shit like watching romantic chick flicks on Netflix. And other boring tedious soul crushing things which no straight man should ever have to do.

And while we straight men are doing these stupid things, the stereotypical gay dudes are out there dancing the night away and doing other cool shit like throwing pride parades, going to a tranie filled cabaret, and buying expensive glassware.

Here are just some things that come to mind when I picture myself as my idealized homosexual doppelganger:

1.) I’d automatically be a part of a fantastic club scene that wasn't filled with drunken college girls who don't know how to hold their liquor. Or that bad things tend to happen when you put too much blow up your nose. 

2.) I imagine that I would have more casual sex than I already do. Perhaps I am just stereotyping, but a large part of me thinks that there are a lot more available fish in the sea if sucking cock is your thing.

3.) I’d probably have great abs. (But if by some vengeful act of the gay gods I didn’t. It would still be ok. As I would have my own sub-gay community of bears which would still perform fellatio on me).

4.) I’d probably have a boyfriend who treated me very well. I mean, we’d probably be one of those couples which everyone just said “Oh they’re just so perfect for one another”. We probably would be so perfect together, in fact, that even the most right-wing nut job would just break down and say that it would be crime for anyone to stand in the way of our love. For it flowes as easily and beautifully as an afternoon summer’s rain.

And there you have it. All the reasons why I wish I was gay.

And while in the past I’ve tried fixing myself by going to several straight to gay conversion therapists. At the end of the day I still always find myself masturbating to Bangbros.com.
Which is a heartbreaking shame. Especially when I am reminded of my heterosexuality each and every time I give one of my lady friend's pearl necklaces of both the literal and figurative variety.

Woe is it to be a heterosexual in the early days of the 21^st century. As straight love no longer has any romance to it. I'll even say it aloud that the only true romance left in the West is gay love. And as such, it does my heart good to see true love each and every time I find myself in Boy’s Town with a lady friend of mine. Who just so happens to be wearing a pearl necklaces of mine of both the literal and figurative variety.

Being sober at a bar: Or the things that I noticed when I was there not drinking.

Every serious drunk picks up at least several interesting stories during their drinking career. These tales of inebriation usually revolve around saying vulgar things, getting yourself into dangerous situations, or a mistake of a sexual encounter which your friends will mockingly celebrate you for later. 

In terms of my drinking history, I have to say that when I picked it up seriously at 18 until I more or less stopped at 21, I had a good, consequence free run minus the various social faux pas which I committed while drunk.

But long story short, I am pretty much done abusing alcohol to an extreme level as I have too much going on these days not to be sober most of the time. And I’ll even admit that the great majority of the time I do very much enjoy being sober. Since it is the only way in which I can run on all cylinders. 

Yet on the other hand, I always did find it rewarding worshiping Bacchus. And that thought always makes me want to get shit-faced. But when that thought comes over me there are a couple of topics which I like to think over in order to placate the howls from the beast of my addiction.

You will lose a lot of weight not drinking:

Since I cut back on drinking back in 2011 I am down to almost 150lbs. And as such, most morning my body thanks me for not downing a six-pack the night before. You are welcome body. Now if you would only let me to get to sleep easier I probably wouldn’t ever feel the need to drink again.

Drunks are ugly:

I cannot help but staring at drunks as they stumble out from bars in the wee hours of the morning. To my eyes they are all just so very ugly. And yet that was me for awhile as alcohol abuse takes a huge toll on ones body. Thankfully now that I have gotten my depression under control, I don’t have to look forward to sporting a beer belly or a bulbous nose.

It’s really cool not wasting all your money on booze:

Seriously, when you look at your expenses, you’ll be surprised how much of your money goes to drinking. And while I still smoke far too many cigarettes, at least this one expensive addiction is reasonable in comparison to taking 80 bucks out of an ATM and pissing it away in a few hours.  

But sadly your sex life will diminish:

Without social lubricants, my pick-up skills are essentially pretty worthless. I mean, where do most people usually go for first dates? Bars, of course! What do people do in order to dissolve the dating jitters? Get a little drunk, of course! Consider the last time when was the you kissed someone for the first time sober or had sex with someone for the first time sober? Jesus, the prospect of doing those things while dry are frightening to say the least.

And yet, it’s cool not feeling so shitty in the morning:

Without alcohol in my system, I have a tendency to wake up before the sun rises and I go for a run. But with a hang over, I unfortunately forget how beautiful the world is. And honestly, sometimes I find it is so breathtakingly beautiful that the words at my disposal barely seem right for the occasion.

I’ll admit that it is hard at times to live with yourself and with sobriety you lose an easy escape mechanism for your troubles. But all the same, I find it rewarding to be able to confront my problem head on as I usually succeed in overcoming them when I don’t have alcohol in my system.

I Make Love to Myself Far Better Than You!

During my life I have only tried to send love from my tongue (which in all honesty lives in the mouth of a well spoken simpleton). But I’ll confess, that at times I would rather be an emasculated, complain-ee, than do what is necessary in order to create for myself happiness. And while I am not always so steeped in self loathing, there are moments when I must remind myself that - generally speaking and in most instances - my will is good.

For some reason that I do not know why my life always had a strange way of taking interesting and obtuse turns. I think that this was the case mainly because I made the promise to myself years ago to always say “why not” in place of “why”.

But these days I am trying to change and not be so open to the insanity that I aspired to years ago. My life goals now are more based upon the idea of trying to be more happy, more merry, more of a better person. Hopefully I can put all of that craziness behind me as all the warnings from the college lifestyle 101 are now no longer valid. Which I am quite thankful for as the college lifestyle was not conducive towards the positive life choices which I am trying to make these days. And also admittedly, I haven’t felt excitement about undergraduate education for a long time now.  

But back when I was still in school there were times in which I would smoke cigarettes outside my school’s building. And during these mini-cancer sessions, I would sometimes find myself staring at the freshmen who are just beginning their higher education careers. Behind my neon-colored vintage Ray-Bans, my eyes would pierce them like a Vietnam veteran with a thousand yard stare. Filled not with hatred but rather with a mournfully intrusiveness over these kids. As to me, they all still held the innocence of a person who has not yet been broken by the world. 

Sometimes, if I was in a reflective mood (which smoking cigarettes generally puts me in) I would try to remember back to when I was in their shoes.

When I do this strange memories tend to flood back to me. Four years later. It seems like a lifetime. Or at least a main era. Chicago in 2008 was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not. I can hardly place myself there when I try to remember those devil may care days back when I was 18.

In someways, it is a fool's task trying to look backward and remember yesterday. As the past is a hard thing to truly know. I think a lot of people who write about past eras are biased by their trade, special interests, or personal perspectives. But objectively for me, it seems entirely reasonable that the embodiment of an era can come together at a central point. And in my world, that central point was Chicago in 2008.

I guess my central memory of that year mainly centers on a handful of nights (or should I say early mornings). When I used to go see a show at the Metro in a state of being half crazed. And afterwards instead of going home like a normal person. I would hop on the L and bomb southward toward the Loop or some student’s apartment located in an ethnic neighborhood like West Englewood or Pilsen.

During those days, there were youthful indiscretions in every direction. No matter where I went I was sure that I’d find some party, some adventure, some easy sex; or at least something interesting.

Yet in spite of all that debauchery in the air, the climate of 2008 was filled with sparks and sing-songs of reform. As with the election of President Obama, we were to finally put away the 9/11 era and move onto something new. Something bold. Something which wasn’t based in negativity or prejudice.

And I think that, sex and drugs aside, reform was the main focus of 2008. As simply, there was this sense in the air of inevitable victory over those indescribable forces behind the curtain which had been keeping us down.

Or maybe I just feel that way because on November 4^th 2008 I was smoking a joint and drinking vodka straight from the handle with a couple of Latin Kings. So in all honesty, I haven’t the faintest clue to the validity of any of the above statements as that era for me was a blur of booze, drugs, and having to fake orgasms.

But I digress…

Although, if these four long years have taught me anything. It is that everyone needs to drop the frustration, guilt, and empathy; which we all have for one other.

While there is certainly good in everyone. Our sentimentality is making us reckless with our hearts. So stop loving each other so much! You all just make me so fucking sad.

I just don’t think that I can handle les miserables enfants anymore...
I know. I know. I am just a sad, unappreciative, Scorpio. Jesus man. Why don't you just enjoy it?  I don't know! Stay sober and go for a jog or something. The serotonin will eventually flood back into your brain.

But whatever the truth may be. I know that my self loathing is always for certain. But in spite of that, at least at the end of the day I can make love to myself far better than you can!

I Find Having Casual Sex Difficult While Sober.

Let me start off by saying that you are a weird-o unless you find it is easy being naked in front of someone who you have been dating for awhile. One of the good things about a committed relationship is that over time, you get to know every scrape, scar, and freckle; which your partner has on their body. And unless you are a complete sociopathic deviant, in some strange way, you will eventually learn to grow fond of their imperfections as they become endearing marks of their individualism which can be view similarly as tattoos. 

Hopefully dear readers, if you are like most couples, your committed relationship sex will eventually become as trivial as paying your MasterCard or shaving. I mean, unless you pay your bills and keep a decent looking appearance bad things tend to happen to your life. It is the same with your sex life. Just get in there with your lady or fellow and punch-out a quick sesh. And afterwards, you can watch all the Becker you damn well please with a complete knowledge that you just did a relationship check-up.

In this important (almost as important as achieving orgasm) way, sex is a way more accurate barometer to the health status of your relationship than any unrestricted conversation between lovers could ever provide. Even us frigid White Americans, speak many more volumes about how we feel through our bodies than we do through our tongues (Unless you are into spelunking. Then by all means, deliver volumes onto the world with your silvery tongue of sexual justice!).

But for those of us who enjoy the chase of uncommitted sex, the first time fucking someone sober can be wicked scary as the feeling of seeing some near stranger naked in front of you holds a weird combination of being turned on and frightened at the same time.

Now for those unlucky souls amongst us who could not handle their substances and had to throw themselves at the feet of sobriety. Sober casual sex becomes for us a strange and new unexplored field. Sobriety, that old devil. The harbinger of peace and mutually respectful interactions between individuals since the creation of mankind. The idea of it alone makes me sick.

But regardless of my personal views on inebriation and sexual intercourse. There are unfortunately people amongst us that for personal reasons must be on the wagon.

As sad as it is to say, these poor individuals no longer have the ability to achieve the quick ego boost gained by drunkenly seducing someone without any further expected commitment.  For those people, sober casual sex is now 100% honest since they can’t blame on the whiskey this time.

And yet from my own personal sober casual sex experience. Knocking boots with some near stranger while dry delivered me the chance for hypersensitivity and emotional exposure. So in this way, I have come to realize that sober casual sex has the potential of delivering some of the greatest, and at the same time, most horrifying experiences which you are capable of. Just let me tell you that you must be comfortable with the strange realness of someone’s beautiful body hitting you in the face and demanding your total attention.

I mean, it’s not like she took my clothes off just to take them off and then said to me, “Well, there you go, your clothes are off.” When we were standing naked together there were no doubts our intentions. She wanted me for me. And I personally found that to be an Earth shattering concept. Because sex while sober is no longer just a drinking game like beer pong. There is now a meaning behind it because two souls are now trying to express something by it.

So what I found out from that encounter is that when you’re sober you have no other choice but to be yourself. And in a lot of ways, such honesty is a scary beautiful thing. With sobriety, you’re forced to open your eyes and really connect with that other person. And if you are like me who got through a good period of his life with a perpetual inebriated mask on, that’s when you will find yourself at your most vulnerable.

From what I have found putting down the bottle a bit is that the main handle on sobriety is that it doesn’t give you a choice but to feel. And once I got a couple of weeks under my belt and thankfully finger blasted somebody, I was just moved by the idea that someone else wanted to say to me with their body “Liquor or not, I want you exactly the way you are”.