Some of you may wonder why I am not divorcing my wife. We have sex at most once or twice a month. I would like to have sex at least a few times a week. We have tried a number of things to make this work for us, but I think the essence of it is not going to change. I would like to divorce her, but it's not as easy as you think it is. It's not that I can just go to a lawyer, call her up and serve her the papers. Do I really want to live a pathetic, divorcee's life with two young children requiring years of child support? Do I really want my children to not have a father in their lives? Do I really want to wade through some custody battle? The answer is no. The lack of (enough) sex is not a sufficient reason to let things collapse completely.
Am I happy? I don't think I am. But there are many of you out there who are just as unhappy as I am, and you figured out your various ways of coping. I don't see how getting a handjob is hurting anybody. Unless you make an argument that there is such a thing as a victimless crime. That's my way. You can judge all you want and call it whatever you wish, but while I do feel guilty about it sometimes I despise you and your moral high ground. You don't know what you are talking about and you are just going to the same hell as I am.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Sunday, September 2, 2012
(Acu)pressure
I do apologize as I have not updated my blog as frequently. Situation between me and D are hanging out exactly where it was, with the requisite once a month or so intercourse and pretty much not a lot of anything else. She doesn't act as if she cares. I certainly have given up hope, even though I tried numerous times to communicate with her. I can't divorce her. I can't get away. I am stuck.
On Saturday I went to one of those local Asian spas that seemed to have sprouted out a lot lately. A work colleague recommended it. It was a small, sort of dampy place, ran by a couple of older Asian women who barely spoke any English. Each of the massage beds were separated by a thin screen, and you most certainly can hear your neighbors. One of the ladies pointed to an open bed and said, "take off", and I took off everything except my boxer briefs.
I lied on my stomach, my head in a hole facing the floor, and the masseuse began her work. As she used her elbows, I started to relax. The smooth, artificially warm touch created by the sandalwood massage oil, mixed with a faint smell of incense and that barely audible "Eastern" music was dizzying. Moments later, she pulled off my underwear to my buttocks, and I was startled, but she was only going to massage my back.
The best part was the head and face massage after I flipped over, and after that was done she whispered into my ear, "do you want a special massage?" "Ok." I said, and immediately regretted it because I forgot to ask her how much. She pulled off my underwear and skillfully started massaging my penis, which was already slightly engorged. A few stray thoughts came into my head: "Is this cheating? Is someone going to find out? My wallet is in my bag, what if someone I know comes in and picks me up? Would I lose my job? What if I can't get hard? That's gotta be embarrassing. I hope they don't try to blackmail me." But as her smooth fingers started tugging on my tumescent cock, the tide of pleasure started to turn, rising stubbornly from my pelvis up and down, above my belly into my chest and down my feet. And I realized that nothing mattered. Pleasure was the end in itself. Her other hand cupped my scrotum as I started squeezing my own nipples with my free hands and my mind went blank, with all the annoyance and troubles temporally escaping my cranium as the waves upon waves of pleasure tightened my rectum. I let out a slight moan but was reminded of the indecent and less than private environs. As the tension in my prostate built up, I relaxed every part of my body and focused my mind deep in my pelvis, and that tingling sensation went into the heels of my feet. I tightened my PC muscles a few more times as she slowly went up and down my shaft, and finally let that uncontrollable release envelope me. I watched the jets going straight up my belly, up my chest and shoulders.
She wiped me down with a warm towel. It was $150. I am definitely going back.
On Saturday I went to one of those local Asian spas that seemed to have sprouted out a lot lately. A work colleague recommended it. It was a small, sort of dampy place, ran by a couple of older Asian women who barely spoke any English. Each of the massage beds were separated by a thin screen, and you most certainly can hear your neighbors. One of the ladies pointed to an open bed and said, "take off", and I took off everything except my boxer briefs.
I lied on my stomach, my head in a hole facing the floor, and the masseuse began her work. As she used her elbows, I started to relax. The smooth, artificially warm touch created by the sandalwood massage oil, mixed with a faint smell of incense and that barely audible "Eastern" music was dizzying. Moments later, she pulled off my underwear to my buttocks, and I was startled, but she was only going to massage my back.
The best part was the head and face massage after I flipped over, and after that was done she whispered into my ear, "do you want a special massage?" "Ok." I said, and immediately regretted it because I forgot to ask her how much. She pulled off my underwear and skillfully started massaging my penis, which was already slightly engorged. A few stray thoughts came into my head: "Is this cheating? Is someone going to find out? My wallet is in my bag, what if someone I know comes in and picks me up? Would I lose my job? What if I can't get hard? That's gotta be embarrassing. I hope they don't try to blackmail me." But as her smooth fingers started tugging on my tumescent cock, the tide of pleasure started to turn, rising stubbornly from my pelvis up and down, above my belly into my chest and down my feet. And I realized that nothing mattered. Pleasure was the end in itself. Her other hand cupped my scrotum as I started squeezing my own nipples with my free hands and my mind went blank, with all the annoyance and troubles temporally escaping my cranium as the waves upon waves of pleasure tightened my rectum. I let out a slight moan but was reminded of the indecent and less than private environs. As the tension in my prostate built up, I relaxed every part of my body and focused my mind deep in my pelvis, and that tingling sensation went into the heels of my feet. I tightened my PC muscles a few more times as she slowly went up and down my shaft, and finally let that uncontrollable release envelope me. I watched the jets going straight up my belly, up my chest and shoulders.
She wiped me down with a warm towel. It was $150. I am definitely going back.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Long hiatus
Rest assured, I am not gone and my sex life continues to be nonexistent, as my children grow before my very eyes and my loins fill to the brim every day, with the ineluctable, cataclysmic releases at the end of a long, mesmerizing fog that's our reality. D continues to be noncooperative. Her latest excuse is "I need to work out." Don't get me wrong, I like to have a fit and attractive woman. But what I would like more is a fit and attractive wife who would put out. As I jelqed myself to oblivion last night I cried a little. Seriously. Me, a full grown man. You would never think it would be possible. I look just like the next guy you know in the streets. Regular joe. Something is wrong with me and something is wrong with the way my life is going.
I saw my therapist again yesterday. He told me that the decision would be mine to make, to take up that dreary, figurative ax and chop down the rambling thicket that has been my marriage. Is the sexlessness a symptom or is a curse of a disease that is much greater. As he elaborated and listened in silence, I started to imagine what his life was like, if his sex life was something that he wanted, if he had masturbated on that very day--perhaps he masturbated to me? To the thought of me, and my wife, and perhaps his thoughts were even more unspeakable, untenable thoughts that could be littered even on an Internet anonymous blog.
I think I want to move to New York. Or Portland, Oregon. Or Houston. Somewhere where I can be rid of this life, and start anew. But sex is not the reason to divorce, especially as I pontificated the consequences of my abandon. When I was "free" to do whatever I pleased, I certainly did not get as frequent as that twice monthly allowance that I am bestowed upon these days, and that loneliness, suffocating loneliness that I could not stand when I was young, and single, and pathetically afraid of being effeminate. So I hid it. I lied and torn myself apart in it, and compensated my unfortunate romantic life with tedious, torturous "work", as we call it, that I could only describe it as an addiction. The paradoxical pleasure of the self-flagellating catholic was the model of my early 20s. I was ugly, irrational, damaged by rejection after rejection. Nobody knew about it. Who would I tell? My golf buddies or people I went out and drank with every once a while?
This is how orgasm works. As it comes out a taste of that dreariness leaves you in a few seconds of contractions, as your spirit leaves you, your body becomes a shell of an existence and transparent in time like an empty glass.
My doctor suggested an antidepressant. I eerily fancied that bubbling dull numbness setting in and stuffing my seminal vesicles like cotton balls in a pill bottle, and I would triumphantly wave that magical wand of Prozac at my wife, yelling, "look! I don't need you." But my desire is the only part of me that is still alive, and I need to feel that something of life is still being produced inside of me, as it comes out, evoking yet another episode of uncontrollable spasm, temporarily whitening out my ego and superego.
I saw my therapist again yesterday. He told me that the decision would be mine to make, to take up that dreary, figurative ax and chop down the rambling thicket that has been my marriage. Is the sexlessness a symptom or is a curse of a disease that is much greater. As he elaborated and listened in silence, I started to imagine what his life was like, if his sex life was something that he wanted, if he had masturbated on that very day--perhaps he masturbated to me? To the thought of me, and my wife, and perhaps his thoughts were even more unspeakable, untenable thoughts that could be littered even on an Internet anonymous blog.
I think I want to move to New York. Or Portland, Oregon. Or Houston. Somewhere where I can be rid of this life, and start anew. But sex is not the reason to divorce, especially as I pontificated the consequences of my abandon. When I was "free" to do whatever I pleased, I certainly did not get as frequent as that twice monthly allowance that I am bestowed upon these days, and that loneliness, suffocating loneliness that I could not stand when I was young, and single, and pathetically afraid of being effeminate. So I hid it. I lied and torn myself apart in it, and compensated my unfortunate romantic life with tedious, torturous "work", as we call it, that I could only describe it as an addiction. The paradoxical pleasure of the self-flagellating catholic was the model of my early 20s. I was ugly, irrational, damaged by rejection after rejection. Nobody knew about it. Who would I tell? My golf buddies or people I went out and drank with every once a while?
This is how orgasm works. As it comes out a taste of that dreariness leaves you in a few seconds of contractions, as your spirit leaves you, your body becomes a shell of an existence and transparent in time like an empty glass.
My doctor suggested an antidepressant. I eerily fancied that bubbling dull numbness setting in and stuffing my seminal vesicles like cotton balls in a pill bottle, and I would triumphantly wave that magical wand of Prozac at my wife, yelling, "look! I don't need you." But my desire is the only part of me that is still alive, and I need to feel that something of life is still being produced inside of me, as it comes out, evoking yet another episode of uncontrollable spasm, temporarily whitening out my ego and superego.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
voyeuristic desires
Lately I've been thinking about getting in touch with someone on craigslist to make a pornographic video. I think all the sexual deprivation has led to strange fantasies on my part. I have been thinking more about having sex with old people lately. Old, disgusting, near death people with wrinkly skin, who smell like a combination of baby powder and adult diapers. I want to fuck that. Sort of like where people have scat fetish, I realize that if I did get myself involved in that kind of situation, I will never be judged, and not being judged is always a good thing because at home I'm constantly being judged.
It would ever be so sweeter if I can do an old lady while her husband sits and watches, and I would love to be that man who would show him (and her) how good it could be in bed, bringing her to endless cycles of ecstasy that he has not been, if ever, able to provide her. When I get on top of her, I see leathery skin that's been damaged by decades of sun, freckles, age spots, indicators of an imminent, timely demise of what lies within that shell of a body. And thereupon I cannot care what I would do because whatever I do would not matter. Or maybe I would want to see the pathetic old couple try to get it on, squeezing and tugging their respective puny little organs, with no sign of vitality arriving from their ailing, congested hearts. Is it a necro thing? Is this why people like cold, dead, dried up corpses to possess to their hearts' content?
D and I had sex again a few days ago, right after her period, when she's at the admittedly highest point of her desire every month. She was so beautiful, which made it even more frustrating, because after the inevitable climax, which I tried my best to delay to the detriment of my seminal vesicles, I was in a daze of a combination of nostalgia and longing--it wasn't gonna happen again for a long time, and I wanted to live in the present, immediate consciousness, when the tender, silky smoothness of her vaginal wall still felt indelible and warm in my prickly remembrance, griping me from the inside. I wish it was as easy as being a necrophiliac, if she were dead, if I didn't love her, if we didn't have children together. And yet I don't hate her. I hate myself. I want to be whipped.
It would ever be so sweeter if I can do an old lady while her husband sits and watches, and I would love to be that man who would show him (and her) how good it could be in bed, bringing her to endless cycles of ecstasy that he has not been, if ever, able to provide her. When I get on top of her, I see leathery skin that's been damaged by decades of sun, freckles, age spots, indicators of an imminent, timely demise of what lies within that shell of a body. And thereupon I cannot care what I would do because whatever I do would not matter. Or maybe I would want to see the pathetic old couple try to get it on, squeezing and tugging their respective puny little organs, with no sign of vitality arriving from their ailing, congested hearts. Is it a necro thing? Is this why people like cold, dead, dried up corpses to possess to their hearts' content?
D and I had sex again a few days ago, right after her period, when she's at the admittedly highest point of her desire every month. She was so beautiful, which made it even more frustrating, because after the inevitable climax, which I tried my best to delay to the detriment of my seminal vesicles, I was in a daze of a combination of nostalgia and longing--it wasn't gonna happen again for a long time, and I wanted to live in the present, immediate consciousness, when the tender, silky smoothness of her vaginal wall still felt indelible and warm in my prickly remembrance, griping me from the inside. I wish it was as easy as being a necrophiliac, if she were dead, if I didn't love her, if we didn't have children together. And yet I don't hate her. I hate myself. I want to be whipped.
Friday, July 6, 2012
nipple orgasm?
Is it really possible? I have a female co-worker who told me once that she could achieve orgasm by simply stimulating her nipples. I told D the story and she was anything but convinced. This female co-worker is the feisty type. I once watched cable porn with her on a business trip when we shared a room together. Nothing happened. We just laughed at how ridiculous the first person perspective was.
A couple of days ago I became a bit more curious about the concept of nipple orgasm when I was inadvertently flicking my own nipples while watching pornography. D, obliviously, wasn't there. It gave me a strange sensation in that something deep in my pelvis, perhaps my prostate, would be a bit tickled, and I would end up engorged even though I wasn't touching myself. The area around the nipple is a well known endogenous zone, so I wasn't surprised by my experience. Last night, D went to bed early again, and I was left to explore my own body. I read up on nipple orgasm, and a few people reported on the internet that such a thing is possible for men.
So I went outside, took off my shirt, and felt the warm, wet summer night engulfing me. I quietly started to flick my nipples again, both of them, with my index fingers. I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation both above and below my waistline, and a little bud of something started to grow between my testicles, deep within my loins. I decided to continue, as that was the trick the web posts seemed to have liked: persistence. Waves and waves of pleasure started to rise, like the tides on a beach under a full moon, rising from between my thighs and submerging my entire upper body. Eventually I reached a point where my sphincter started to contract involuntarily and the body of my penis danced rhythmically. My heart beat with a pounding, flushing pace. My body started to writhe uncontrollably, with my throat making a funny, raspy noise. I felt that time had stopped and I wasn't myself.
"Ah..." I yelled out slowly and softly.
Nothing came out of the orifice. It was certainly an orgasm, but a dry one. Later that night I was able to recapitulate that rising tide and cataclysm a few more times, until I decided that it was too much to handle, and grasped and stroked until I finally discharged my evanescent eros. Was this really the mythological male multiple orgasm?
A couple of days ago I became a bit more curious about the concept of nipple orgasm when I was inadvertently flicking my own nipples while watching pornography. D, obliviously, wasn't there. It gave me a strange sensation in that something deep in my pelvis, perhaps my prostate, would be a bit tickled, and I would end up engorged even though I wasn't touching myself. The area around the nipple is a well known endogenous zone, so I wasn't surprised by my experience. Last night, D went to bed early again, and I was left to explore my own body. I read up on nipple orgasm, and a few people reported on the internet that such a thing is possible for men.
So I went outside, took off my shirt, and felt the warm, wet summer night engulfing me. I quietly started to flick my nipples again, both of them, with my index fingers. I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation both above and below my waistline, and a little bud of something started to grow between my testicles, deep within my loins. I decided to continue, as that was the trick the web posts seemed to have liked: persistence. Waves and waves of pleasure started to rise, like the tides on a beach under a full moon, rising from between my thighs and submerging my entire upper body. Eventually I reached a point where my sphincter started to contract involuntarily and the body of my penis danced rhythmically. My heart beat with a pounding, flushing pace. My body started to writhe uncontrollably, with my throat making a funny, raspy noise. I felt that time had stopped and I wasn't myself.
"Ah..." I yelled out slowly and softly.
Nothing came out of the orifice. It was certainly an orgasm, but a dry one. Later that night I was able to recapitulate that rising tide and cataclysm a few more times, until I decided that it was too much to handle, and grasped and stroked until I finally discharged my evanescent eros. Was this really the mythological male multiple orgasm?
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
a drunk tryst relived
I find that my tolerance has increased dramatically lately. It used to be that I can drink a couple of whiskeys and I get comfortably tipsy, and these days I would need a solid five shots to get buzzed, and even then it wears off quickly. Last night was not exceptional, when I finally had the opportunity to spend some time to get away from D, even though all I ever so desperately wanted to do is to get closer to her.
I went to a neighborhood bar with Aaron and Christopher. Aaron, being the family man that he clearly didn't want to be, decided to be the DD and only had a couple of drinks. Christopher and I started doing shots at 8:30PM and while we tried to play a drinking game over the monster truck show, it was really more or less to drown each of us in our own miseries. He revealed to me a few days ago that lately he had been having problems getting it up, and his wife had been nothing if not scathing, especially considering that he put up the front of a 20 year old frat boy all day long. He related an episode to me where his wife told him, in clear contempt, "looks like I'm not gonna get any again tonight?" "I told her to fuck off, and she just said whatever and we went to bed. Whatever is right." Gulp.
I was in Aaron's car, and my head was spinning. I felt the inevitable desire to retch, and that desire triggered a flood of memory of D, when we first met, when this happened on a regular basis. I remember being disoriented with intoxication, of the alcohol, of her scent, of her meditative, contemplatively sexy stance disseminating in the air. I remember her hand on the inner part of my thigh, slowly wriggling her finger up my shorts. As I recalled the details of that encounter I felt myself becoming uncontrollably aroused, and I turned myself away from Aaron in the front seat toward the window. I remembered the cotton sheets of her cramped little apartment, and her smooth, young, lean navel as I slowly kissed it, ejaculating fiercely into the latex condom. I remembered recovering thirty minutes later, my tongue intertwined with hers, then entering her from behind as she shyly requested a break to take a shower. I cruelly denied her request as I ruthlessly penetrated her over and over again until the waves of pleasure came over the second time, absorbing whatever the leftover essence there was. The second orgasm was always different, as you felt the desperation and effort of your own sphincter, as the remaining pleasure became coalesced, bit by bit, with a not minute amount of scornful, dull ache, sitting quietly in the back quarters of the perineum. But it was inescapable.
Aaron's car stopped. It was my house. It's time to face another sleepless and sexless night.
I went to a neighborhood bar with Aaron and Christopher. Aaron, being the family man that he clearly didn't want to be, decided to be the DD and only had a couple of drinks. Christopher and I started doing shots at 8:30PM and while we tried to play a drinking game over the monster truck show, it was really more or less to drown each of us in our own miseries. He revealed to me a few days ago that lately he had been having problems getting it up, and his wife had been nothing if not scathing, especially considering that he put up the front of a 20 year old frat boy all day long. He related an episode to me where his wife told him, in clear contempt, "looks like I'm not gonna get any again tonight?" "I told her to fuck off, and she just said whatever and we went to bed. Whatever is right." Gulp.
I was in Aaron's car, and my head was spinning. I felt the inevitable desire to retch, and that desire triggered a flood of memory of D, when we first met, when this happened on a regular basis. I remember being disoriented with intoxication, of the alcohol, of her scent, of her meditative, contemplatively sexy stance disseminating in the air. I remember her hand on the inner part of my thigh, slowly wriggling her finger up my shorts. As I recalled the details of that encounter I felt myself becoming uncontrollably aroused, and I turned myself away from Aaron in the front seat toward the window. I remembered the cotton sheets of her cramped little apartment, and her smooth, young, lean navel as I slowly kissed it, ejaculating fiercely into the latex condom. I remembered recovering thirty minutes later, my tongue intertwined with hers, then entering her from behind as she shyly requested a break to take a shower. I cruelly denied her request as I ruthlessly penetrated her over and over again until the waves of pleasure came over the second time, absorbing whatever the leftover essence there was. The second orgasm was always different, as you felt the desperation and effort of your own sphincter, as the remaining pleasure became coalesced, bit by bit, with a not minute amount of scornful, dull ache, sitting quietly in the back quarters of the perineum. But it was inescapable.
Aaron's car stopped. It was my house. It's time to face another sleepless and sexless night.
Friday, June 29, 2012
suicide by gunshot
Today I was at a TGIF after work, and I ran into a guy who worked for a company up in the East, who knew a guy who was a really good friend of mine from college. I asked him about my friend, C, as I haven't heard from him for more than 2 years.
"He killed himself."
I felt my skull exploding in a millisecond, and my expression froze in an awkward silence. The guy standing next to me stared at me, trying to save me with a distracting, innocuous remark.
"How did this happen?"
"Well, he shot himself. I guess he's been depressed for a long time."
The topic skidded away, as they started trading gossip about their respective bosses, while I stood there, frozen in agony and stunned, with racing thoughts bubbling, penetrating my body in a visceral, nauseating way, so paralytic that I could barely talk to anyone else at this pleasant, welcoming little event.
I raced home and researched ceaselessly over the Internet concerning his death, and there was very little. No obituary. No newspaper prints. I couldn't find his E-mail even. Maybe it was just a rumor. I had some glimmer of hope that maybe it's all just heresy. I decided to find his boss's E-mail and sent him a little message to express my condolence. Perhaps I'd be able to get his wife's phone number and talk to her--I went to their house once in college for thanksgiving, and remember fondly of that wonderful lunch-dinner that was so diametrically different from my own family's eggshell scattered annual ritual.
The boss was on vacation. Then 5 minutes later he sent me an E-mail saying what a terrible loss it was, and the memorial service was already over with lots of tears and good humor. He attached a nice little company-wide message neatly summarizing his "devotion" to his wife and his "love" to his 3 year old son.
I felt unspeakably angry. I wanted to yell, you don't know what the fuck you are talking about. Last time I talked to C was in 2010, and over the phone he told me "the only thing that annoyed me more than my wife is my son." He spent ten, twelve hours with you and you don't really know him. Nobody knows him. And now he's dead. He shot himself IN THE BLOODY HEAD and I didn't even know you can get a gun up there that easily. Why did nobody have a fucking clue?
I am so angry. I am angry at him. I am angry at his boss. I am angry at his wife and "friends", if he had any to speak of. I am most angry at myself. Why did I only try his gmail a year ago? Maybe he would've checked his old school E-mail. Maybe he would've forwarded it to his new company E-mail. Maybe he would've called me before he died had I been able to stay in touch with him. Maybe I could've done something more.
He was a few years older. We smoked my first joint together. We complained about the inanity of our respective love affairs together. We were supposed to laugh in our intoxication into our old age together.
He once told me, I don't meditate, I masturbate, and that was wisest thing I've heard in my life. Does he have a gravestone somewhere? C, If you can see this, know that we have unfinished conversations, and I'm looking forward to having them with you in hell.
"He killed himself."
I felt my skull exploding in a millisecond, and my expression froze in an awkward silence. The guy standing next to me stared at me, trying to save me with a distracting, innocuous remark.
"How did this happen?"
"Well, he shot himself. I guess he's been depressed for a long time."
The topic skidded away, as they started trading gossip about their respective bosses, while I stood there, frozen in agony and stunned, with racing thoughts bubbling, penetrating my body in a visceral, nauseating way, so paralytic that I could barely talk to anyone else at this pleasant, welcoming little event.
I raced home and researched ceaselessly over the Internet concerning his death, and there was very little. No obituary. No newspaper prints. I couldn't find his E-mail even. Maybe it was just a rumor. I had some glimmer of hope that maybe it's all just heresy. I decided to find his boss's E-mail and sent him a little message to express my condolence. Perhaps I'd be able to get his wife's phone number and talk to her--I went to their house once in college for thanksgiving, and remember fondly of that wonderful lunch-dinner that was so diametrically different from my own family's eggshell scattered annual ritual.
The boss was on vacation. Then 5 minutes later he sent me an E-mail saying what a terrible loss it was, and the memorial service was already over with lots of tears and good humor. He attached a nice little company-wide message neatly summarizing his "devotion" to his wife and his "love" to his 3 year old son.
I felt unspeakably angry. I wanted to yell, you don't know what the fuck you are talking about. Last time I talked to C was in 2010, and over the phone he told me "the only thing that annoyed me more than my wife is my son." He spent ten, twelve hours with you and you don't really know him. Nobody knows him. And now he's dead. He shot himself IN THE BLOODY HEAD and I didn't even know you can get a gun up there that easily. Why did nobody have a fucking clue?
I am so angry. I am angry at him. I am angry at his boss. I am angry at his wife and "friends", if he had any to speak of. I am most angry at myself. Why did I only try his gmail a year ago? Maybe he would've checked his old school E-mail. Maybe he would've forwarded it to his new company E-mail. Maybe he would've called me before he died had I been able to stay in touch with him. Maybe I could've done something more.
He was a few years older. We smoked my first joint together. We complained about the inanity of our respective love affairs together. We were supposed to laugh in our intoxication into our old age together.
He once told me, I don't meditate, I masturbate, and that was wisest thing I've heard in my life. Does he have a gravestone somewhere? C, If you can see this, know that we have unfinished conversations, and I'm looking forward to having them with you in hell.
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