Erection Day

A couple weeks back, while waiting around at the only dentist’s office in town that doesn’t require pants, I read an interesting article in some nameless magazine about how “sex addiction” is a bigger problem than most of us realize. That the people who are “addicted to sex” are truly suffering. That they need counseling, interventions, possible tax breaks and their own telethon.

And why not? In a world in which people can sue McDonald’s for serving hot coffee that’s actually hot, it should come as no surprise that someone’s managed to turn their incessant love of fucking into a card that can be played for sympathy and possible medical benefits.

As a dedicated perv, in fact, I should probably rejoice that someone’s already done the heavy lifting for me, establishing the idea of “sex addiction” as a medical condition so that I’ve got a ready-made excuse to cling to when I get caught with my face under some other woman’s ass.

Still, something about the whole notion doesn’t sit right with me.

You see, I’m out there, every day, earning my stripes. I think about sex roughly 27 hours a day. I meet women on the job and in bars and on airplanes and during conjugal visits, and my first thought is burying my tongue between their legs. I can’t go more than ten minutes without thinking of cunnilingus, and sport such a perpetual boner that I’ve taken to walking around my office with a large (okay, medium-sized) FedEx box to hide my arousal. When I’m not fucking, I’m studying up on the subject, so I can be even better at fucking which will then — provided the word-of-mouth is kind — bring bold new opportunities for even more fucking.

And when someone calls me on it? I don’t hide behind fancy-schmancy “addictions.” I don’t go limp and fall down and cry and blame all my problems on a wacky aunt who showed me her naked ass back when I was six, thus rendering me unable to “handle” the enormity of sex. I don’t beg for forgiveness or assistance or socialized medicine. Save that shit for the people who need it. The people with real problems.

I simply nod in agreement, shrug my shoulders, and get back to thinking about fucking.

That said, I was intrigued to read in the aforementioned article that the Boston chapter of Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous attracts over 50 people to its monthly meetings. Assuming that some of them have to be female, I may just have to take in one in person.

For research purposes, of course.

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