Caught

I had just gotten off a double at VTs. The smell of sweet and garlic and followed me all the way home. Thank God it was a Thursday, Lady’s girl’s night out night. That meant no awkward, unfulfilled foreplay, no conversation, just sleep. I disrobed, admired my profile, penis, and went over the bedside table ready to put on a little night cap on. No, I wasn’t pouring myself a cognac to easy my trip to dreamland; I was reaching for a condom so that I could sleep soundly without worrying about soiling the sheets with another wet dream. Opening the drawer and reaching inside the industrial sized box of condoms, I touched not greasy foil, but a quarter folded sheet of office paper. When opening the crudely created card, I was greeted with 2 haunting words, ‘I know.’

“I know.” What the fuck could she know? Besides rudimentary survival skills, I’m more or less convinced that Lady is brain dead or is and has been suffering from post-concussion syndrome that only Trent Green could relate to for the entirety of our relationship. Nonetheless, she knows something, something that she feels necessary to transcribe in crayon. What could be so important to warrant crayon? Personally, I would just shout the information at increasing decibels until everyone within earshot was aware of my knowledge, but crayon, never crayon.
I told her that I didn’t actually graduate, so there would be no need to re-emphasize that. She knows that I work at the Italian equivalent of McDonalds, so that would be no surprise. Michael? The thought races through my mind, as a cool sweat forms on my brow, could she know Michael? The fear dies down and an awesome wave of relaxation takes over: no one knows Michael. Ha.

I needed an expert opinion. Not know any, I called Brian.

Wrap it up before you nap it up

I fear the night, but not nearly as much as I dread each dawn. Sleep offers no solace and my dreams taunt me. I am dissolving at an inhuman half-life. . I am nothing but a shadow of my former self I need help.
My sexual inefficiencies have become less than esoteric. I cannot leave my apartment or venture far from the alcove that is Vinny T’s without being met with sympathetic smiles. My last cognizant orgasm, a weak orgasm at that, is an aberration of memory rather than of perception. Erections are sparse and fleeting. Masturbation is futile. The torrents of guilt that engulf me each time I peer into the mirror are suffocating. I need help.
I gave up on sex more than three weeks ago. The childish foreplay ended last weekend. Though unspoken, Lady and I have become an elderly couple that has accepted that the warranty on our sexual organs expired. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re sleeping in separate beds by Thanksgiving. And like Akon, you can put the blame on me.
If laughter is an aphrodisiac, than guilt is a contraceptive. I can’t close my eyes without seeing Red, I cannot urinate without remembering where the loose flesh in my palm has been, and I cannot even hold my girlfriends hand without the sadistic urge of having her delicate fingers pressed up inside of me. These are the ghosts that haunt me each day. These are the memories that erode erections, banish boners, and have completely crushed my ability to perform sexually.
This is only the tip of the iceberg; the iceberg that’s sunk my Titanic sized libido. During the day I can control the urges, the digressions from reality, but at night, in the depths of my subconscious, I am a slave to my slumber. The nocturnal nuances of my dreams are terrifying. The lucidity of each passing moment, the ambivalent reality, and the trepidation of each twitch has reduced my ability to differentiate truth from torment. Not only do I see Red in each dream, but I can feel, smell, and taste her. She invades each of my senses with such force, such barbaric mirth that I am defenseless to the mirage. I can feel her warm flanks press up onto me, I can feel her fingers gouging at my loins, and I can feel us climaxing, as one. Yet, no two dreams are alike. Every sexual fantasy that I’ve suppressed is unmasked. Every disquieting sensation that I have silenced is brought to fruition. No secrets are safe. No boundaries recognized. And though no dream is the same, each morning is a carbon copy: fully erect, laying next to Lady, boxers drenched.
By some cruel twist of prepubescent predestination, I have been inflicted with an epidemic of wet dreams. If I were a sexually inexperienced 12 year old, this might be acceptable, if not enjoyable, but for a sexual experienced and well versed college “graduate”, it could not be more humiliating. Picture this scenario: waking up next to the girl who you have been unable to physically pleasure for the better half of a month, covered in your own DNA, having to slink out of bed to change--unnoticed, every single morning. Those are the “good” days. I can’t take naps, dose off on the T, or even day dream without having the same results. Young men dream of being this sexually active, but until now, I am almost positive it has never actually occurred in their dreams.
The wet-naps are the worst. I have always been considered a strong napper by my peers. I’m the type of person who can unplug for 20 minutes and wake up refreshed, recharged, and ready to go. I can no longer risk this. The cascades of cum that flood my trousers during these short intervals is enough to put Peter North to shame. But like my inability to keep end this problem, the shame continues.

The guilt that the cum represented was to much to bear. Each day was ruined by the realization of being covered in guilt. I started wearing condoms to bed. I had to, it was the only way. Seeing as how my sex life (when awake) had completely flat lined, I found myself with a surplus of condoms. With the laundry bills increasing in price and frequency, I did what anyone else would do, [on second thought, probably only me] I wrapped it up before I napped it up.

Gotty