This Comforting Sickness

With the hormones flowing at a ripe and impressionable age 
With the seemingly unlimited access to something both new and exiting
Falling in love with a single woman, maybe two, pictured in a classy photo shoot.
With an enticing ability to dazzle and delight me.
Learning her face first and her curves second.
Falling in love with women twice my age.
So graceful. So elegant. So beautiful. So perfect.
When I have a woman like this one day, I will treat her like a princess for sure.
Soft. Soft. Soft.

IIt’s both a comfort that I love and a sickness that I hate.
It’s where I can be king for a time and I’m never told no.
It’s the nameless and the faceless; it’s the flawless and blameless.
It’s the slow but exceedingly creepy stranglehold that has choked me and destroyed my life.
It’s where these secretive diversions have brought me a world of pain and a lifetime of shame.
It’s where I’ve been able to hide myself away, hide the man that everybody sees.
It’s where love has been replaced by the lust of one…no hundreds…no thousands upon thousands of women.

When I cannot wait to see you again tomorrow turns into See you shortly turns into I’ll see you again tonight.
I won’t share her with anyone. She’ll be hidden and locked away from all until my eyes are ready again.
Time has allowed for a handful of the most desired and a multitude of second tiers.
I still haven’t forgotten a body, but the faces might be starting to fade.
No longer is the need to see the same face each day, there are more and more beauties to go around.
Latina, Asian, blond, brunette, younger, older, I now pick and choose what I’m in the mood for
I’m going to spend my time with her now, but I promise I’ll still come back to you.
I still do need my favorites to remain so I can return to them when it is convenient for me.
More. More. More.

Scenarios that I would have previously found revolting now me bring me a heightened sense of arousal.
The desire for more than a picture. The yearning for something beyond a solo. Fantasies of yesteryear are a bore.
 A single image of flesh deludes me. She’s no longer enough. And neither is she. But both of you together?
The want to see different facial expressions and swaying of bodies. The hunger to hear screams of intense pleasure.
The craving for something once considered vile; this now a powerful urge for new fetishes, fantasies, and fixations.
Exploiting norms previously unknown. Young. Old. Young with old. Groups. Vulgarity. Physicality. Unwillingness.
Degradation like nothing never imagined, this brutal filth now controlling my mind, body, and soul.
There’s nothing that’s too foreign or taboo anymore; every new act is unique in its own potent way.
Hard. Hard. Hard.

The elegance is gone and the allure has faded; what once brought pleasure now just makes me numb.
I’ve seen it all and it’s all the same; what once filled me with energy now makes me spiritless.
I’ve built up such an unhealthy tolerance for this obscene material that I might be ruined forever.
There is nothing I can find to be graphic or humiliating enough for me to reach that ultimate high.
The desensitization from such heavy stimulation over this elongated time frame has utterly crippled me.
With the thrill completely lost, I frantically search the world for something else that can fill this failed vice.
I search for material as absolutely demeaning as possible and still it doesn’t come close to being enough.
I scour the Internet frenetically for a substitute, begging and begging and begging.
Desperate. Desperate. Desperate.

It’s both a comfort that I love and a sickness that I hate.
It’s where I can be king for a time and I’m never told no.
It’s the nameless and the faceless; it’s the flawless and blameless.
It’s the slow but exceedingly creepy stranglehold that has choked me and destroyed my life.
It’s where these secretive diversions have brought me a world of pain and a lifetime of shame.
It’s where I’ve been able to hide myself away and be the man as far away from the man I am perceived to be.
It’s where love has been replaced by the lust of one…no hundreds…no thousands upon thousands of women.

With a need for something beyond this screen; with the gall to venture beyond these walls.
Making my way to the back room of a dimly lit strip club, fondling the exploited, purchasing the extras.
Encounters with complete strangers, consumed with the same addiction, in secret, exclusive clubs.
Venturing into some of the most revolting rundown brothels in the filthiest parts of these dark cities.
The thrill of something once deemed breathtaking is now replaced by the simple need for a quick, unprotected fix.
Once, an infatuation with a woman fifteen years older who I knew I’d never even meet.
Now, nothing other than a real, dehumanizing act of aggression with someone fifteen years my junior.
And now, instead of love, I release feelings of lust, anger, denial and betrayal through a series of few powerful thrusts.
Shameful. Shameful. Shameful.

The five stages of pornography addiction. 1) Early exposure 2) Addiction 3) Escalation 4) Desensitization 5) Acting out sexually

Written in 2013

Copyright, The Poetry of Bryan Buser