By Big Ed Magusson (Guest Blogger)
Hi, I’m Big Ed, and I’m a sex addict.
Hi, I’m Big Ed, and I’m a sex addict.
I
also write porn.
Well,
actually I haven’t considered myself an addict in over a decade. I
did have a problem with compulsive sexual behavior in my late
twenties, and I spent five years in twelve step groups working
through it and getting beyond that behavior. I also learned to
differentiate “acting out behavior due to psychological issues”
from “high libido with limited outlet” issues.
The
latter is where the “write porn” comes from. Writing erotica of
all stripes provides a great libido outlet that harms no one. It
might even provide some pleasure to my readers. ;-)
The
compulsive
behaviors
were
for
me,
and
for
many,
environmental
as
much
as
anything.
There’s
a
great
study
with
rats
that
showed
they
were
much
more
likely
to
become
addicted
to
heroin
if
they
were
socially
isolated
from
other
rats
(read
more
about
it
here).
I
was
living
in
cities
where
I
had
few
friends,
doing
the
workaholic
routine,
and
desperately
wanting
human
touch,
and
in
particular
female
touch.
Fortunately,
or unfortunately, there’s a way to get that. It’s called a lap
dance. Back then they could be had for twenty dollars a song, with
the amount of touch allowed varying from state to state and club to
club. I wasn’t spending my money on anything else so why not?
The
problem was, it’s a slippery slope. When does the desire turn into
a crutch? How long before an occasional fun trip becomes every
Saturday, regardless of budget, regardless of other plans? And how
does that seep into your soul?
I
tried to capture this in my story, The Fix:
*
* *
I
usually start jonesing on Thursdays. This week, it starts Wednesday.
Three long days before I can see her.
As
usual, once the adrenaline rush starts, work becomes a blur. My pulse
throbs. My skin crackles. The testosterone soaks into my soul. I
don't give a damn about PowerPoint, not that I ever did. I mark time,
desperate for the weekend, desperate for the relief.
It
doesn't help that Wednesday is the staff meeting from Hell. Two hours
of listening to my boss and his favorite flunky extol the virtues of
their most recent shuffling of org structure boxes and the new
software tools they've bought to quote 'streamline our efficiency'
endquote. I tune out. I can already hear the music in my mind.
Fortunately, before it’s my turn for
'around the table' reporting, my cubicle mate pokes me. My boss
frowns when I explain the most recent code snafu that will delay me
finishing the beautiful graphs for his European conference. I promise
I'll have them Friday close of business, which seems to mollify him a
bit. Just a bit.
Wednesday
afternoon does not improve. The data scrolling across my screen
doesn’t make sense. I do another line
walkthrough of the code. I don’t see
anything wrong. I try some hand calculations. They don’t
match my screen. When the janitor fires up the vacuum cleaner, I give
up and head out. Once again, I have nothing to show for my day.
At
home, I pop a Boston Market Frozen Meatloaf Dinner in the microwave
and turn on Entertainment Tonight. It’s
mindless, but it’s better than the news,
which is better than the silence if I turn the TV off. The
distraction helps a little. After I've eaten and washed my fork and
glass, my mind drifts back to her. I sit back on the couch, open my
pants, and masturbate to my first orgasm of the evening.
It’s
okay. I mean, it’s an orgasm, so how bad
can it be? Other than the mess, of course. I throw my shirt in the
laundry and look for a book to read. Preferably one that I haven’t
reread so recently that I can remember it all. I take my time and
settle on a dog-eared worn favorite. It fills my evening until it’s
time for bed.
I
can’t sleep, though. Every time I clear
my mind, thoughts of her slink back in and my blood heats. I give up
and throw back the covers and stroke myself to another orgasm. It’s
not enough, so I go for a third. Finally, sheer exhaustion overwhelms
me and I drift into dreamland.
*
* *
This
first story spawned a series of stories on addictive behavior (which
is now available in an anthology ebook, details below). As I explored
this corner of sexuality, I realized that most work on addiction
focused on how destructive it was. Very little pointed out just how
much fun addictive behaviors are.
For
the dirty secret of addictions is that they’re
enjoyable. We get addicted to things that bring us pleasure—not to
doing our taxes or eating lima beans. The addiction comes when we
choose the pleasure over the longer term consequences. Sex has one of
the great pleasures. So shouldn’t serious sexual addiction
discussions reflect that?
My
story Sugar follows an older man funding a young woman’s
college education. He describes his pleasure at her company in the
following excerpt:
*
* *
On
the drive to Denver in my BMW, she’s her
usual chatty self. She talks about finals and studying and the big
party at the Student Union at the beginning of the week. I ask how
her roommates are doing and learn the sordid details of their recent
failed romances and adventures in overdoing the alcohol. She accuses
me of rolling my eyes, but I remind her that I was young once too,
and can recall when the most important question in the world was
where we were going to score our next joint.
She
looks a bit abashed, and I chuckle. She’s
never admitted to doing drugs, but sometimes her stories have
convenient gaps in them. I don’t call her
on them. I’m her lover, after all, not
her father.
The
restaurant valet gives us the usual double look. As usual, she
ignores it, and as usual, it bothers me just a bit. I shake it off as
we head inside.
The
conversation continues its pleasant ramble over dinner. The only
dissonant note is when I ask about her job search. She haltingly says
there’s been no change.
“The
offer’s
still open,”
I say.
She
shakes her head. “And the answer’s the
same. I can’t work for you.”
“It’d
be good experience. And the company would pay for your MBA.”
She
gives me a pained, pleading look.
I
drop the subject. When she talks about her roommate’s
job offer from Ernst & Young, I tell her about a consulting job
they did for us a decade ago. We talk the nuts and bolts of business
well through dessert, and she hangs on my every word.
I’m
feeling like a king as we leave. She tucks her arm into mine and
nestles close. When the valet brings the car, she smiles at him, and
then gives me a kiss on the cheek. The valet can’t
hide his envy.
Eat
your heart out, kid.
I
could float home.
Instead,
I take the drive slow, savoring it. A beautiful young woman in a BMW,
after a fabulous meal. Does it get any better than this?
At
home, by unspoken understanding, we head up to the master suite. She
grabs her overnight bag and excuses herself. While she’s
in the bathroom, I turn back the sheets, undress, and get out the
condoms. I stretch out on the bed and casually play with myself while
I wait for her.
When
she appears, she’s stunning. As usual.
She’s in black thigh highs, a sheer robe,
and the tiniest bra and g-string she owns. The necklace hangs at the
top of her cleavage, a sparkling star against the tan of her skin and
the black of her lingerie.
She
smiles, confident and pleased at my reaction. She raises an eyebrow,
silently acknowledging my appreciation. Then she slowly strolls
forward, each foot placed precisely, each sway of her hips and her
breasts fighting for my eyes and attention.
At
the foot of the bed, she gestures toward my erection. “Is that for
me?”
I
laugh.
She
kicks off her heels as she crawls onto the bed. With a lick of her
lips, she gingerly takes my cock in one hand and sweeps her hair
back. She looks me in the eye and then lowers her mouth.
*
* *
As
I wrote these stories, I realized that the growth in self-awareness
was as much a part of addiction as the acts themselves. In The
Fog of San Francisco,
the narrator returns from an amazing lap dance in a seedy club:
*
* *
Back
in the hotel room, late that night, I realized that there was only
one thing I wanted to do. I wanted to go back to the club with a
condom and have Melani cuddle me while my cock nestled inside her.
I
also realized that there was one thing I absolutely could not do. I
couldn’t go back to the club with a
condom and ask Melani to fuck me. You don’t
pull the goddess into the gutter. You don’t
suck the feast into the filth.
Which...
which is what I was.
Sandy
knew it. I knew it. Melani knew it—but didn’t
mind.
And
that broke my heart.
I
couldn’t be the pathetic loser who talked
about how tight a stripper’s ass was
while he fucked her. I couldn’t be the
guy who lived for handjobs under the table. I couldn’t
be the one who emptied his wallet yearning for just a caress...
I
couldn’t...
I
couldn’t...
I
couldn’t go back.
Somehow
I got undressed, curled under the blankets in a fetal position, and
cried. I cried until I fell asleep.
Morning
brought blinding sun. Once again, I’d
forgotten to close the curtains. I woke groggy, but when I stood my
head was clear. I paused in front of the window. The fog had gone and
the sun glittered off the Bay. Blue, beyond what I thought blue could
be. Clean, as if God had wiped the grit from the air. As I stood
there, breathing deep, a sense of warmth filled my body.
Church
bells pealed, and I followed the sound to see a small Catholic church
near the hotel. I smiled as I watched the happy people gathering in
the square outside.
I
threw my clothes on and headed down. I could slip into a back pew and
have breakfast after. It felt like a day for, well, as cliché as it
is, it felt like a new day.
*
* *
Ultimately,
I think the real challenge in addressing addiction in literary
erotica is that it goes straight at the contradiction I opened with:
is there a contradiction between being a former addict and a porn
writer? I.e., do erotic and addictive story elements mix?
Hopefully,
with these excerpts, I’ve shown that they can.
*
* *
More
of
Big
Ed’s
work
and
stories
can
be
found
at
BE’s
Place,
www.besplace.com,
and
BE’s
Place
Books,
www.besplacebooks.com.
His
Addictive
Desires
anthology
is
available
from
Amazon,
Barnes
&
Noble,
Kobo,
and
Smashwords.
Addictive
Desires
by
Big Ed Magusson
There’s
a richness of experience where desire and addiction collide, rarely
explored in literary erotica. The twelve stories in this collection
portray individuals dealing with addictive desires in both blatant
and subtle ways. From a man obsessed with checking online porn, to
one who doesn't understand why his sugar baby wants to move on, some
are stories of cluelessness. Others are stories of redemption--due to
love or simply grown self-awareness. They each capture the depth of
desire mixed with a need for more than simply sex.
