I was supposed to go to the hot springs today, but it’s raining; I was supposed to drive an hour away, park, pay the $20 entrance fee, hike up a trail, take off my clothes, and sit in a big pool of hot water with a bunch of other naked people, but it’s raining – so I’m at a coffee shop.
This is NOT me. For one: I’m not into coffee shops. And for two: I’m not a naked guy. I sometimes wish I were a naked guy; however, I’m insecure about my body.
Before you start feeling sorry for me, know that my insecurities (slight gut and a bit more body hair – specifically on my legs and my ass – than I would like) are manageable and mostly a product of an obsessive mind that likes to blow things out of proportion. If anything, the fact that I am insecure over such manageable insecurities, should fill people with less manageable insecurities with rage.
Some guys might not care about their slight gut or excess body hair and, instead, show more concern with the penis aspect of being a naked guy. I – by no means – am packing serious heat down below, but I’m fine with my penis: it’s an average size and the doctor did a fine job with the circumcision.
I also don’t care if people (men or women) see my penis. I’m not flashing it around like it’s on some World Tour, but I don’t view it as some sacred part of myself that only a select “lucky” few get to see.
My only real concern, when it comes to the penis aspect of being a naked guy, is if I’m having a good penis day or not. Like hair days, there are good penis days and bad penis days, and if I were to be naked in front of a bunch of strangers, I would hope I was having a good penis day.
But say I were having a GPD and I was 100% secure with my body, I am extremely antisocial, which can make sitting in a big pool of hot water with a bunch of other naked people somewhat awkward.
When I first got into writing, I would look at comedians and think: This is the type of fucked-up person I need to become if I want to write comedy. It was as if I had consciously decided to fuck myself up more than I already was in order to become the funny man I wanted to become. But now that I am older and possess the ability to see the funny man for what he truly is – a sad, anxious, depressed, bitter, antisocial, and neurotic man – I don’t know if I want to be the funny man anymore; however, separating the “funny” from the “man,” might not be an option.
I’m at a stage in my life where I want to date. And I mean DATE – not get in a relationship with rules and expectations and family members and all that other horrible stuff that sucks about being in a relationship. I just want to meet interesting people and have various sexual experiences with a variety of consenting women. Is that so much to ask?
The problem is that I’ve been having horrible luck with online dating. I’ve had matches here and there, but to quote Mark Borchardt from the documentary film American Movie, my options are “scant at best.”
It’s gotten so bad that I’ve been contemplating moving to a bigger city like New York or Seattle – or even back to Chicago – just to make this online dating life possible. But I just moved to Reno in July, and if I moved to some big city and my matches didn’t drastically increase, I’d probably lose my mind.
The lack of matches could be my fault, as I am fairly picky when it comes to dating, and I could be swiping out of my league. I’m a pretty vain person; looks have always been a thing for me. It makes me feel bad, horrible even, but what am I supposed to do? I know looks fade and personality is far more important, but if you’re having sex with a person, shouldn’t you be attracted to them?
I sometimes feel like I should just completely remove sex from my life, which is pretty much how I was living over the past three years in Idaho while attending graduate school. However, jerking off gets old, and I’m really not interested in becoming a monk.
Since moving to Reno, I’ve had sex three times. Once with someone I met online dating before online dating took a turn for the worse, and twice at a brothel.
I would probably continue going to the brothel, as I enjoy the transactional nature of it all. There are no illusions at the brothel: the women know why you’re there; you know why you’re there – it’s actually a thing of beauty; however, it’s pricey, and I don’t want to be a brothel guy.
I don’t know what type of guy I want to be. I sometimes feel like I have an idea, but then I lose all sense of myself. I question my thoughts, my actions, my clothes, my hair, my everything. This, my friends, is the obsessive mind at work in all its glory.
I’m sure my whole desire to DATE and have various sexual experiences with a variety of consenting women is yet another obsession. But it’s something I have never really done and feel compelled to do.
Unfortunately, as I mentioned already, my online dating options are “scant at best,” which means I have no choice but to talk to women in public, which, if you can believe, has always been a fear of mine.
I don’t understand how any man has the courage…NO, the audacity to approach a woman in public and start up a conversation. It’s like these men are cool with invading another person’s space and convinced that the shit that comes out of their mouth is worthy of a woman’s attention. The only explanation for such audacious behavior has to do with a man’s drive to fuck. I too have a drive to fuck, but I will suppress that drive if it involves invading another person’s space or filling a woman’s ear with the shit that comes out of my own mouth.
A lot of this fear of talking to women may be connected to that “funny” mindset I was discussing earlier (FYI: Most comedians aren’t great with women; hence, I am not great with women) combined with 10+ years of working in customer service where I not only learned the importance of personal space but also honed my hatred for 90% of the human population.
I thought I would become more compassionate toward people (men and women) as I got older, but I’m finding the opposite to be true. The number of idiots that live on this planet continues to amaze me. I try to empathize with these idiots, but I sometimes find their words and actions so outrageous that my empathy escapes me.
It’s almost as if I have spent the past however many years of my life obsessing over these idiots to the point where I have formed a defensive bubble around myself that I, or any idiot, can break through.
The hot springs, I suppose, was a way for me to penetrate that defensive bubble in an effort to open myself up to the world in a way that I have never done before. It was also a way for me to see naked women.
But since it’s raining, I’m at a coffee shop. It’s not nearly as drastic as the hot springs, but it’s something, and something is better than nothing. And who knows, maybe these somethings will add up to something, so when I do go to the hot springs; when I do drive an hour away, park, pay the $20 entrance fee, hike up a trail, take off my clothes, and sit in a big pool of hot water with a bunch of other naked people, something magical will happen, and I will transform into a 100% secure and social guy who is having a GPD and turns that hot springs into a motherfucking orgy.
Or maybe I go to the hot springs and nothing happens and all of these somethings were for nothing, and I will be forever trapped in this defensive bubble like I may be forever trapped in the “funny.” Either way, it won’t be until the rain clears that I find out.
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