That was quick...

First off, congrats to my pal Scur for nailing the Tenacious D quote!

I am thinking of having a song quote contest soon - the winner will get a Gmail invite. The rest of you will have to blow me for one...

Losing mom is starting to actually feel liberating. It's nice to know she's at peace and not getting into any trouble, or making trouble for anyone else. As mean as this may sound, problems followed mom nearly everywhere she went, and I like the idea that she is just memories now. I will miss her very much, but in some strange way, it's a relief, too.

Now that the shock and pain are subsiding, I don't feel like the clingy little wuss that I was last week. I don't want to sit around watching "Titanic" and "Shakespeare in Love" with Lila. I don't want to fall asleep next to her while Jay Leno interviews Jude Law. I'm not 65 years old. I want to go out and do something dangerous.

Yeah, I'm getting the urge to fuck again. I am starting to remember why I called myself an addict.

I am wondering why I could have ever thought for one minute that I was "cured". Work was crazy. Then mom got sick. For a while, my mind was on other things. I am reminded of the movie "A Clockwork Orange," in which they take a sociopathic criminal and "train" him to be a law-abiding citizen. It works - for about 15 minutes. He is a criminal, in the depths of his soul, and that is what wins out in the end.

I don't know why I like sex so much. I don't know why I need it. But I do. Am I going to start denying myself, for any reason? Doubt it.

Mom was only 58 years old. We don't know when we are going to go. I'm even more inclined now to abandon all pretense, to go out and have as much fun as possible. Now.

"So why don't you just fuck Lila," you are saying. You just don't get it, do you?

Getting off, as in having an orgasm, is cool. It's a release that every guy needs. But that need is not why I crave sex so much. Your body pretty much takes care of that release: If you build up too much pressure down there, you'll blow a load in your sleep. And a lot of us guys whack off constantly, too. But just getting your rocks off is only half of it.

I've said it before: I think of myself as an antisocial personality more than a sex addict. I like the hunt. I like the conquest. I thrive on it.

I like the ritual of dressing up before I go out. I like the idea of choosing just the right sweater, just the right slacks, and just the right shoes with just the right belt. I like looking a very certain way when I enter a room, walking a certain way, with a certain look on my face, then acting aloof when I get a compliment about my appearance, as if I got dressed in a dark room and threw on the first things I could find.

I like searching the room for the right girl to hit on. Sometimes, guys, it's not the hottest girl, or the 2nd-hottest girl, or the third. Sometimes it's the chick in the corner with the wind pants. Is it nice to fuck the sexiest girl in the room? Yes. Have I done it before? Yes. But every other guy at the party is going after her, too. I might fuck you, and I might not. But I'm DEFINITELY not waiting in line to find out.

I like approaching her. I like thinking of what I am going to say, coming up with a funny joke or a good segue into something we can talk about. That's after I say "hi", of course, because that's all I really say when I meet someone. I'm not about these dumbass lines that guys always use (Are you from Tennessee? Cause you're the only Ten-I-see!).

I like watching her look at me, sizing me up, squinting a little, thinking, who IS this guy? And I like watching her face, how it goes back to normal after she stops laughing at a joke, and how she bites her lip subconsciously as she thinks about fucking me for the first time. She probably hasn't entertained these thoughts before. Fucking me did not occur to her, until just now. But I've been thinking about it the whole time, and everything I have said and done has been leading her there, without her even knowing it.

I like walking away at the right time, not looking back, and wondering if I "stuck". I like looking surprised when she comes back over to me later, like I have been thinking about a million other things since I spoke to her last, and she had slipped my mind.

I like watching the look on her face when I ask her to go for a walk, or leave the party. I like how she struggles with the idea, maybe because she has a boyfriend, maybe because she feels like a slut, and I like how I pretend not to notice her conflict whatsoever.

I like the electricity of kissing her the first time, the unknowing anticipation of what her lips will feel like: Wet? Dry? Sloppy? Neat? I like grabbing for her tit, wondering if she will stop me. I like finding out that she won't.

I like watching her pull her shirt off, her bra going slightly askew, a crescent-moon of breast popping out underneath. I like the thought that, when she got dressed this morning, she had no idea she'd be pulling those clothes off in front of some guy she hadn't even met yet.

I like the way our breathing speeds up as we disrobe, hot and panting, brimming with desire. I like stopping for a minute before we are totally naked to kiss each other. And as we do, I like the heat of her naked boobs against my chest.

I like looking down and seeing my cock standing straight out, like I am saluting her. I like that moment of delicious anticipation in which her legs are open to me and I am just about to penetrate her, and I like the thought that I have really done it, I have found a way to get this girl to take her clothes off and give herself to me; I have found a way to get a girl to give me everything she has in this world. Again.

I like the rush of slipping it into a girl for the first time, feeling her wetness and heat. I like how the action builds to a crescendo, faster and hotter, and I like how she moans subconsciously as we fuck, and how it feels so good we can hardly take it.

I like pulling my cock out of a girl and blowing a load all over her stomach, or her tits, or her face. I like how she flinches a little, as if she didn't expect there to be that much, and I like how she says, "Mmmmmmm" after we are done, like she has just eaten a really good dessert.

Can I stop?

Do I want to?

"Go to therapy," you are saying. Yeah, sure. Go to someone like doc, who will fill me full of drugs, then talk to me endlessly about how it felt when mom whacked me in the ass with a metal soup ladle or slapped me across the face in front of my friends.

Yeah, he'll give me some drugs, and I will blow up like a balloon and lay around all day, fat and lazy, but I won't be thinking about sex. You could "cure" me by slicing my nuts off. Does that mean the treatment was justified? Does it mean it was the right thing to do?

This is who I am. This is how I want to live my life. And this is the way I am going to live it, until I feel differently.

Yeah, I do still love Lila. And I know I'll slip up eventually; I always do.

I wonder when it's going to happen.