The Hottest Girl in the World

This is it. I’m not kidding this time. She is the hottest girl in the world. Perfect aquiline nose. Long, straight blonde hair gracefully falling down to her ass. And don’t get me started on her ass. It’s the firm ass of a dedicated yoga girl. I’d let a hundred thousand African children starve to death for just one night with her.

On second thought, I think this girl is actually the hottest ever. I know I said that the last time, but I’m being serious now. This mocha-skinned thing with the intimidating eyebrows and the jet black hair. Deep red lipstick in boner-inducing contrast to her perfect white teeth. She is perfect mother material. She’s the kind of girl you’d topple nations for.

But everyone knows that redheads are, in fact, the hottest girls in the world, and this one is no different. The sun hits her just right and you can see bits of gold in her hair. She’s a truly a perfect human specimen. Breasts that are almost too big. A splendid, jiggling ass that verges on being fat, but for right now is simply perfect. Green eyes like the rolling hills of Ireland.

It is like this all day, every day. Each one is more attractive than the last, and the entirety of your being needs to fuck them. Every cell in your body screams for it. If I could just fuck heryou think, then I would be happy. And you would, for a day or two. And then the hunger would creep up again.

Even the hottest girl in the world has her flaws. Makeup is deceptive. Her breath smells bad in the morning. And she gets annoying when she falls in love with you–they always do. But the biggest flaw of every girl is that they are just that: a single girl. The same girl. Day after day after day.


On Friday night I had the greatest seafood risotto of all time. I bought a bottle of chardonnay on the way home and killed it while watching The Gambler. I woke up without a hangover on Saturday and had bacon, salami, and Manchego for breakfast.

My friend invited a bunch of us over to his apartment on Saturday afternoon. We ate roast beef and brussels sprouts and salad while drinking tons of beer. Then we played Taboo. Then Pictionary. Then Clue. THC-infused chocolate and a bottle of single malt scotch were passed around. Clue became considerably more difficult after that.

My girlfriend’s best friend showed up and the three of us went to dinner together. I began blacking out at that point and only remember snippets of the night. Apparently I told my girlfriend I was going to have a threesome with her and her friend. Instead, I passed out on my couch while the friend went to pick up one of her friends. Ah, what could have been.

I woke up around 1 A.M. to my girlfriend and another one of her friends (who I also want to fuck) chattering over glasses of wine. The Universe was handing me another shot at a threesome and I blew it once again. The friend left shortly after I woke up. Maybe next time, Nick.

Today I woke up about 7:30 and watched porn all morning long. My girlfriend wanted me to fuck her before brunch. I came on the third thrust. We met my buddy Sean at a nearby cafe. Trying to make conversation with him is like pulling teeth. We’re no longer in high school. The weight of the world has crushed him. He’s old and boring now.

And maybe I am, too.

I returned to my apartment and took a nap on the couch. Read for an hour or so. Watched three episodes of BoJack Horseman. Drank a 25 oz. Chelada in 45 seconds. Some girl I’ve been trying to fuck for several months years sent me a text out of the blue. “What are you up to?” I couldn’t invite her over to fuck because my girlfriend apparently lives here now.

My current existence is absolutely meaningless. I punch a clock for just enough money to pay my rent, my student loans, and enough alcohol to render me unconscious for large parts of the weekend. Then I do it again the next week. And the next. I keep waiting for something to happen and it never does. I guess that means I need to make something happen.

But what?


I spent the weekend back home on the river, so I’m sunburnt to a fucking crisp. I got back into town late last night and met my friend Seamus at the bar for a couple of drinks. I don’t know if he is dealing with his own issues, or if he has just fully embraced his Asperger’s, but he’s even more difficult to talk to than usual. That’s really saying something. We spent an hour or so struggling to make conversation as I nervously gulped happy hour pints of craft beer. The whole thing was futile.

Last night was the first night on my new $1000 King-sized memory foam mattress. The website promised the best sleep of my life. Instead, I tossed and turned just as much as I did on my $200 traditional mattress.

I woke up at 6:00, fucking exhausted. It always amazes me how I wake up tireder than when I go to bed, get progressively tireder throughout the day, go to bed, and wake up tireder still. I’m living life in a daze, and I’m tempted to ram my fist through a window just to feel SOMETHING–anything.

For some reason, the thought of a golden-haired goddess I used to date came to mind. She’s on the east coast now, making tons of money in marketing. I spent about a half-hour lusting over memories of her lithe 18-year-old body. The body I used to own. I cheated on her because I needed to prove to myself that I could get women–always more women. I succeeded, but I lost a real treasure in the process. I couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if I had been a normal fucking human being and dated her seriously, rather than using her as a springboard to fuck other chicks.

I finally forced myself up and into the shower. The hot water hit my sunburn and it felt like I’d fallen in a volcano. Still, the pain temporarily jolted me out of my daze, which was nice. I then turned the water as cold as it would go, hoping it would shock me awake. No luck.

I got dressed for court. Today is a casual docket, so I opted for khakis and a sport jacket. My legs are gargantuan, in part because of genetics and in part because I squat like a motherfucker. In any case, it makes finding pants that fit impossible. The khakis have a 34″ waist — about 4 inches too much — but are so tight around my thighs that they nearly rip whenever I sit down. My cock and balls are on full display through the stretched material. My boxers, which necessarily have to be too big in order to contain my legs, get wadded up in the mix. I tuck in my shirt and undershirt to top it all off; every fucking step I take is pure goddamn agony. I’m ready to kill someone before I even get out the door.

I run outside through the rain to my car. I start it up. 300,000 miles and still going strong. I drive through the downpour toward the courthouse. A full day of jail visits, bitching clients, and annoyed judges awaits.

Housewarming Gift

I’ve been waiting for this Craigslist ad for months. Some grad student wanting to sublease her swank one-bedroom apartment. It’s one of the most sought after apartments in the entire city. It could be mine for only $1000 a month — nearly three times what I’ve been paying. If the pictures are any indication, it would be the perfect bachelor’s pad. Never mind that I have a girlfriend.

I fire off an email letting the girl know I’m interested. There’s no doubt it’s already gone. I continue drinking my whiskey and eventually fall asleep.

Morning comes. Sunday. There’s a new message in my inbox. Yes, the apartment is still available. I can come check it out, just give her a heads up. Maybe the stars are aligning. Maybe I can get out of the moldy shithole I’ve been living in. Maybe I no longer have to live with too many roommates and a dog.

I arrange a showing. I bring my girlfriend and her friend along. I secretly want to fuck my girlfriend’s friend, just for novelty’s sake, but I keep it to myself. I use the call box.

“Hannah, it’s Nick. I’m here to check out the apartment.”

“Ok. Come on up!” Her voice is that weird mix of raspy and hot.

Up the elevator we go. We wander through a labyrinth before arriving at the room.

“527. This is it.” I knock on the door.

“Hey!” she says as the door opens. She’s shorter and cuter than I expected. Straight, dirty blonde hair and a slender physique. Good but not great face. A solid 7.

The three of us waltz in and we introduce ourselves to one another. All I can imagine is the world’s most epic foursome. In my mind, I line them up on their hands and knees on the kitchen island and see how far I can cram my tongue up each of their buttholes.

She’s a grad student. She’s moving because her mom has cancer. I’m getting a kickass apartment out of the deal and the poor girl’s mom is dying. I simultaneously want to hug her and fuck her brains out.

I get lost while gazing into her hazel eyes. I’m listening to her, but I can’t hear a word she says. Something about the washing machine, I think. Time stops. I feel a connection to her, like we’re the only two people in the entire universe. I know she feels the same way, even if only for a split second.

She gives me her number in case I have any questions. I tell her I’ll get back with her in a day or two to let her know whether I want to take it. I text her the next day, telling her I do.

We carry on a lively text exchange. I want to ask her out for drinks but I’m too much of a pussy — I mean, she met my girlfriend for God’s sake. Instead, I walk the tightrope between keeping things professional and being flirty. I phrase things in a vague enough manner that they could be interpreted as come-ons if she were so inclined.

The process moves forward. She flies back to wherever. I pay the deposit and the first month’s rent and pick up my keys.

I look around the apartment. It’s completely empty. Sterile. But it’s quiet and modern. It would be the perfect bachelor pad if only I were single. The grass is always greener.

A spark goes off in my mind and I walk into the bedroom. I know she left some panties here, I think. I have no basis for thinking this. Just sheer intuition. I begin rummaging through the dresser.

Sure enough, there’s a lone pair of blue panties in the bottom drawer. I like the shape of them; they’re the kind that set high on the hip. I don’t like the fact that they’re lace, but beggars can’t be choosers. I unfold them and take a closer look. They’re still a little damp.

I take a long inhale and smile. Maybe life isn’t so bad, after all.

The Rat Race

It’s 6:09 A.M. Right now I want nothing more than to be back in the comfort of my bed, but if I’m ever going to make it as a writer, I’ve got to write. That means something’s gotta give, and it looks like that something is sleep. I’m reminded of that scene in Fight Club, where the main character describes insomnia. I’m not an insomniac, but it often feels like I’m going through life in a similar sort of daze.

Wake up; take a shower; meditate; throw on a suit that hopefully isn’t too wrinkled; race to work; stare at a computer screen for four hours, with nothing but coffee breaks to keep me sane; take lunch for as long as possible, but not so long as to arose suspicions; stare at the computer for another four hours, except then it’s too late for coffee. Monday bleeds into Tuesday bleeds into Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. The weekend is just short enough to provide a glimpse of what elusive freedom might be like, then repeat.

The worst part about all of this is that I actually like my job, relatively speaking. I’m doing work that’s at least arguably important, and it certainly sounds important when I talk about it with others. If I’m a good boy and follow the rules, I could be billing $250 an hour in a couple years. It’s what I thought I’ve always wanted, yet I’m having a “vanity of vanities” moment. I can’t imagine the desperation McDonald’s employees must feel.

Surely life was not meant to be lived this way. I’m convinced that the 9-5 is a recent invention, at least in the modern sense of the term where everyone spends the majority of their waking hours whoring themselves out to their corporate masters. But it’s been ingrained in us. It’s the new normal. If you talk about escaping the 9-5, you’re a dreamer at best. You might even be crazy.

I’m determined to escape. Not in some angsty, Christopher McCandless sort of way, though. It’s just something I’ve got to do in order to survive. Sure, I could play along for the next forty years and I wouldn’t die. I’d still look alive to passersby; I would still eat and talk and breathe. But I wouldn’t be much of a human anymore. With each document typed, each email attachment sent, each hour spent sitting under the shitty glow of the fluorescent light, my spirit would die–piece by piece–until there was nothing left.

But I know I’m going to make it. Somehow, some way. I haven’t given up hope.

Have you?

First Date

It was October 2012, midway through my first semester of law school. I had discovered NoFap in August, and was following the program with surprising success. I lived on campus and went to the gym each morning, so my body composition was improving. I was in a new city with a large population, so I threw up a POF page to see what happened.

Remarkably, I managed to get a number of messages. Most were from fatties, but a few were from girls who had potential. One such girl was named Stephanie, and I wasted no time getting her number.

“Hello! What’s your story?” she asked.

“this POF shit is gay. gimme your #” I said, leaving off the final period for good luck. It worked. Within minutes, I had her number.

We exchanged witty banter for a day or two before she found me on Facebook. Once I accepted her friend request, it quickly became obvious that she didn’t just have potential–she was downright cute. Slender and olive skinned with dark eyes and a genuine, mesmerizing smile. The fact that she had turned eighteen just months before was icing on the cake.

“When are you taking me to dinner?” I asked her. Thank you, Roissy.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?” she responded playfully. It was too easy. With a little more banter, we had plans for dinner that Friday night. She told me she’d never had Thai food, so I told her to meet me at this authentic hole in the wall that served delicious food.

Friday rolled around, and I headed to the restaurant around 7. I walked through the door at 7:10 — fashionably late — and scanned the room. There were two cute girls sitting by themselves at different tables, and I struggled to determine which one was Stephanie based on her Facebook pictures. After some awkward glances, I realized that neither of them were her. I took a table by the window and waited.

My phone vibrated. Stephanie had sent a text asking if I was there, and then another immediately after to let me know she was walking in. She glanced across the room. When our eyes met, I gave her a smirk and a lazy wave. She joined me at the table. The Facebook pictures weren’t deceptive. She was legitimately cute.

“So, you’ve never had Thai food?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said with a smile.

“Wow, you haven’t lived,” I joked. I asked her about the food she liked and made a recommendation based on that. We ordered and continued the conversation. The conversation wasn’t exciting; it was the generic first date interview. It flowed effortlessly, though, and I could tell she was into me. As someone whose dating experience had primarily consisted of sloppy drunken approaches in dark college bars, this was a good sign.

We finished our meals. Stephanie loved hers, so I praised myself for making such a good recommendation. I told her I was new to the city and asked what kind of activities it offered. She suggested bowling. I hadn’t been in a while. What the hell; why not? I thought.

I dominated her at bowling. It’s not that I was that great, but just that she was so terrible. The game gave us a chance to loosen up and get comfortable around each other. When we got back to the car, our lips met in a short but steamy makeout session that made me feel sixteen again.

“So, what now?” I asked as I cranked the ignition.

“I don’t know. What do you want to do?” she asked. Ah, typical girl.

“You wanna watch a movie at my place?” I expected her to at least feign resistance.

“That sounds good,” she said. Game on.

I didn’t have a TV at the time, which meant we’d have to watch the movie on my laptop. And my laptop just so happened to be in my bedroom. Damn, maybe I am a genius after all. She followed me to my room and I turned to her. I stared at her silently for a second, then took a step closer. I moved my hand up toward her face and removed her glasses. I put them on my face.

“Do I look like a dork?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, laughing.

“Well, that just goes to show what kind of fashion sense you have . . .” I said. I threw the glasses on my bed and pulled her into me. Our lips fit perfectly together. I grabbed handfuls of her hair and jerked her head to my whim, kissing her all the while. Eventually, we made our way to the bed.

I was on my back, and she was laying on top of me. We never pulled apart. I didn’t hesitate to grab her ass or her small titties. After a few moments, I began running my hands up her shirt and she broke away.

“We aren’t having sex tonight,” she said with a serious tone. I just smirked and pulled her back into me, continuing to make love to her lips.

After some more time, I was able to pull her shirt up and over her head in one fluid motion. She began to say something, almost as if she wanted to protest, but I kissed her harder still and her concerns melted away.

Some more time passed. I reached down and unbuttoned her pants so quickly she didn’t have time to object. Once they were unbuttoned, she pulled away again.

“Nick,” she began, “I said we aren’t having sex tonight.”

“Don’t worry. We aren’t going to,” I said. I placed a hand around her neck and pulled her back into me, and we continued making out as if nothing had happened.

We continued kissing for what felt like hours, but I enjoyed it and was in no rush.

“Do you have any condoms?” she suddenly asked. I knew things were headed in that direction, but I was pleasantly surprised she had brought it up so bluntly. Without missing a beat, I rolled her over and stood up. I walked to my desk and grabbed a condom. Then I returned to the bed. I grabbed her pants near the top and violently ripped them off of her. She sat up and began unlatching her bra.

“Nick,” she said slowly, “I’ve never had sex before.” The bra fell off to reveal perfect, perky tits.

Yeah right, I thought to myself. But I didn’t care if she had been fucked by thousands of other guys. Her body was a wonderland waiting to be explored. I kissed her hard, then pushed her so she was laying down again.

I pried her legs apart and buried my face in her panties. I breathed in hungrily, hoping to inhale her entire existence. She smelled delicious, like young femininity. She smelled like a million swirling possibilities, and I longed to experience each one.

I pulled her panties off gently, on the off chance that she was actually telling the truth about her sexual history. She attempted to keep her silky legs together, which only heightened my arousal. When they finally parted, I found myself staring at a beautiful unshorn pussy.

Not only was it unshorn–it was positively unkempt. Under normal circumstances, it would have been too bushy. But the image swirled in my mind with the idea that maybe she was inexperienced after all. Surely no girl who was getting fucked on the regular would have such a bush, I thought.

There wasn’t time to think about that, though. It was time to eat that pussy. I parted her hair and then her lips. She was already incredibly moist, and I only added to that by putting my tongue on her clit and lapping at a murderous pace.

She seemed uncomfortable at first, but that soon melted away. In short order, she began breathing heavily. She closed her eyes and and opened her mouth, practically panting. I kept at it diligently. She came, her body shaking and her face flushed, before begging me to stop.

I pulled away and wiped my forearm across my face, which was absolutely covered in saliva and her feminine mystique. I tore open the condom wrapper and rolled it on my throbbing manhood. I laid on top of her and pushed my cock inside. She was soaking wet, and I slid in easily.

The moment our souls met was rapturous. Bullshit reading assignments and student loans faded into the background. Worries about career prospects ceased to exist. Nothing mattered but this. This was the meaning of life. I began kissing her as I thrusted. Slow at first, but building to a fuck crescendo.

The crescendo continued until I was jackhammering her at deadly speed. Her soul appeared to leave her body. Her lips formed into an O and she had that serious look in her face, like she, too, knew that this was the most important thing in the world. Her eyes lit up with each successive thrust. Her cute little tits bounced rhythmically under my dim bedroom light. The moment could not have been more perfect.

I orgasmed hard. It was the kind of orgasm that made one believe in astral projection. It felt as if I had shot gallons. It felt like I had ejaculated my entire soul into her young body. I rolled over, completely spent, and took a long inhale. My sweaty arm was beneath her neck. I pulled her close and we both stared at the ceiling, speechless.

“That was amazing,” she finally said.

“Yeah,” I said. “It was.”

Everything Except What Matters

Binaural beats. Open your third eye. Meditate for twenty minutes a day. Go to the gym 3-5 times per week. Quit jacking off, or at least quit watching porn. Get at least eight hours of sleep per night, preferably nine. Follow the paleo diet. Take cold showers.

Do everything except what matters.

But what does matter?

Right now, what matters is the fact that I’ve got a dick like a diamond. I haven’t ejaculated in 72 hours and I’m so horny I’d fuck a chipmunk if there were one around. Some bookish girl with strawberry blonde hair from school has been sexting me. She’s coming through town next week and wants to get fucked. I’m not opposed to the idea.

I’m not sure life ever gets easy. I finally have a pretty girl who is steadfastly devoted to me, blazingly intelligent, feminine. She’s great mother material. She spends money on me every chance she gets. And yet, I’d rather fuck my hand while I image rubbing the head of my penis against the bookish girl’s butthole. What has the world come to? What happened to everlasting love?

Novelty seeker, that’s what I am, isn’t it? Maybe I just need something new. Maybe everyone does.

I close my eyes and imagine my ideal future:

I slap together a novel over the next couple of weeks. It’s raw, but fuck it. I pay someone five bucks to design a visually pleasing cover and put it on Amazon. Against all odds, the masses come out of the woodwork to buy it in droves. By mid-September, I have enough cash to get a lease on a condo in the Mediterranean for six months.

For half a year, I go to the gym, eat food that isn’t genetically modified, fuck beautiful European girls, get fucked-in-half drunk a couple of times a week, and, when the mood strikes, write. I manage to pump out two more books, and a few online critics hail me as a modern day Bukowski. By that point, the money is pouring in so steadily that I’ll never have to work again.

Next, I visit Southeast Asia for another six months—not because I want to, but because I want to say I did it. I get deeply involved in Buddhism and meditation, but not so deeply involved that I lose my soul. I take up a martial art and get decent at it. I read a lot and try opium once, again just to say I did it. I date a cute Thai girl for three months before a pregnancy scare brings things to a quick end. I read a lot, and write one more book. The reviews are mixed, but some independent filmmaker on the West Coast decides to make a movie out of it anyway.

California is my home for the next six months, and I even make a cameo appearance in the film. It would be a stretch to call me a celebrity, but I get recognized on the street every now and then. I drink a shit ton of fine wine and take up smoking for a few weeks before deciding that it’s a disgusting habit (for real this time). I finally get to fuck the bleach blonde sorority girls that I’ve lusted after for so long. Vanity of vanities.

After the movie is released and my bank account continues to grow, I rent an apartment in Paris. I continue drinking and eating and fall in love with a painter whose best talents are beneath her bra. The sex is mind-blowing. For four-and-a-half months. I buy a one-way ticket to Ireland in order to escape. I don’t bother saying goodbye. The verdant countryside does wonders for my mind. The incessant rain doesn’t.

Finally, I set up shop on one of the cayes off the coast of Belize. I drink Beliken Stouts all day and write when I’m not busy snorkeling or sunbathing. There’s never a shortage of first-rate seafood, all for pennies on the dollar. I get my rocks off by fucking the endless supply of tourist women. I think to myself, “This will do for now.”

Everything except what matters.

But what does matter?

Letter from a Stoic

Law school killed my soul.

Every day used to be a rollercoaster. The lowest lows, the highest highs, and back again. It was torture, but at least I was alive. A flirty text from a cute girl was enough to launch me into a manic state for days. Likewise, listening to a single Nirvana song could send me into a death spiral.

Now, nothing seems to matter.

Maybe it’s because I’m older. A lot of changes take place in the brain between the ages of 20 and 25. Maybe meditation and fish oil and n-acetylcysteine are the perfect cocktail for zen transcendence.

Maybe it’s because I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Instead of a worthless bachelor’s degree, I now have a J.D. that’s arguably less worthless. Earning a living no longer seems out of reach.

Maybe it’s because I’ve fucked a few more girls. Their allure diminishes with each successive notch. Which of course improves my chances of further increasing my notches. Ain’t life funny?

Maybe it’s because of heartbreak. The heiress dumped me when she found out I was fucking the fashionista. I dumped the aspiring model when I found out she was fucking the photographer. The army brat left for basic training. The Italian girl split as a preemptive measure. I cut off all contact with the hippie because I didn’t like her tattoos.

On and on it goes.

When my emotions were a kaleidoscope, I wrote a novella that wasn’t complete garbage. Now, I’m lucky if I can force a blog post. My brain has whiskey dick.

Everyone wants to be a writer, but no one wants to write.

It’s easier to put in your required time and then veg out in front of the TV. Drinking a beer is more tempting than putting pen to paper. And even when I do start writing, naked Snapchats do their best to lure me away.

I’m going to give it a few firm shakes and force it, though. It’s time to rise to the occasion. I’m going in.

The Futility of It All

It’s impossible to get anything done anymore.

Wake up at 6. Shit shower shave. (Some people say you should shave before showering; they’re wrong.) Attempt to meditate even though it’s impossible. Throw on a wrinkled button-up and a sport coat. Add a tie into the mix. Re-tie it because it’s too short. Re-re-tie it because it’s too long. Perfect. Then I’m out the door.

It’s an hour drive to work, so I listen to audiobooks; today it’s the autobiography of Willie Nelson. I zone out at least half the time, thinking of what bills I need to pay or how I should have fucked that one blonde girl from high school. After who knows how long, I come to and Willie — or at least a guy pretending to be him for the audiobook — is yammering on about his third child (Willie Hugh Nelson, Jr., just in case you care). I imagine the amazing life Willie’s lived, and imagine a bright future for myself.

Meanwhile, I finally arrive at work. It’s a government gig, so I have to spend eight hours pretending to be doing actual work. I fire up the computer and open my email. There’s half-a-dozen unread messages, nearly all of which are of no importance.

In between deleting email, I look at Snapchat on my phone to see if any girls have sent me pictures of their titties. The answer is almost always “no.” When I was a broke college student spending half of each week drunk or hungover (or both), cute girls eagerly shared their bodies with me. Now that I’m a postgraduate professional, the fat girls won’t even send me a tit shot.

Work emails blend into mindless internet browsing, always under the guise of “research.” After a while, I walk around the office and talk to my co-workers, who are as mindlessly bored as I am. We shoot the shit and time log it all as work meetings. If I’m feeling really ambitious, I’ll return to my office and fire off a few emails of my own before lunch.

I have an hour for lunch but it usually lasts closer to two. At least one or two co-workers will join, and we’ll consider it a working lunch, so the extra time doesn’t matter. All the guys love the Chinese buffet, where everything tastes like syrup and dish soap. I tag along anyway and pretend to fit in.

The afternoon is more of the same. If the boss is out, I’ll close the door, kick my feet up on the desk, and slip in and out of consciousness for an hour or so. More emails. More mindless clicking. Opening windows only to minimize them so I can do the same to others. On and on it goes until the clock strikes five.

After work, it’s an hour home. More audiobooks. More zoning out and thinking about the blonde chick I should’ve fucked in high school. More coming to in the middle of a paragraph, wondering what the hell the narrator has been talking about.

I get home and almost always, my girlfriend is waiting for me. If we’re feeling energized, we’ll go to the gym and work out. I do deadlifts until my nuts hurt and go to the sauna religiously, but my body still looks like it’s made from Play-Doh. My only saving grace is that every other guy in this town weighs three hundred pounds.

We return to the house and have dinner. It’s usually something paleo-friendly, like steak and salad or steak and steamed vegetables or steak and eggs. I briefly wonder how I’m still so damn pudgy, eating a perfect diet, and then I remember that I ate two baskets of tortilla chips at the Mexican restaurant for lunch.

After dinner I sometimes have a glass of red wine or a single-malt scotch. Sometimes I read biographies of great men; other times I hatchet hookers to death on Grand Theft Auto. No matter what I do, it all feels like a waste of time.

On the lucky evenings when my girlfriend isn’t waiting home for me, I celebrate by drinking more. That kicks my already insatiable sex drive into high gear, and I inevitably spend the rest of the night jerking off to homemade videos of me fucking old girlfriends. It’s as close as I can get to the real deal since I don’t watch porn. Again, it’s all a waste of time.

I head to bed later than I should, knowing that tomorrow holds the exact same thing.

The Problem With Porn


I’ve previously written about the downsides of porn as well as the benefits from abstaining. There is a growing body of knowledge suggesting the negative consequences of frequent porn use, but it’s easy to rationalize away. “One time never killed anyone,” you may say. True, you aren’t going to die tomorrow if you watch porn. However, you might live life a little less fully.

Porn and Social Anxiety

There is at least some indication that internet porn use and social anxiety are connected. That’s not to say that anyone who watches porn will develop social anxiety, nor is it to say that abstaining will turn you into a charismatic cad. As someone who has used pornography and suffered from social anxiety, I began thinking about the possible connections between the two.

Arguably, it’s a chicken and egg situation: does heavy porn use cause social anxiety, or are those who suffer from social anxiety just more likely to use porn heavily? I think there may be a bit of a feedback loop; one begets more of the other. However, my personal theory is that porn is the initial cause.

Again, that’s not to say every case of social anxiety is caused by porn. I’m referring to cases where one has been a devoted fapstronaut for years and has concurrently witnessed a degradation of social skills. I think porn is the initial cause. It should follow, then, that cutting out porn will alleviate your symptoms. I believe that I’ve noted elsewhere on the blog that, prior to using porn, I was a normal teenager (and in fact quite popular). When I began choking the chicken increasingly often, I became much more of a loner. This peaked during my freshman year of college; instead of getting drunk and having sex with cute girls like a normal person, I would sit in my room alone, staring into my computer screen all night.

The Problem With Porn

I’m not a scientist (obviously). There are a number of theories as to why porn wrecks your social skills. Maybe it’s a physiological thing: you’re constantly depleting your body of vital nutrients. Maybe there’s some spiritual factors at play (i.e., you feel “shame” for being a “pervert). Perhaps there are subconscious considerations: maybe your mind knows that you are a phony–that you aren’t fucking real women, and so shyness comes bubbling out as a result.

In all honesty, I think all of those things play a role. I think the biggest problem with pornography, however, is that it creates unnatural expectations in the mind, ultimately causing men to fail to take action.

Have you ever noticed that in 99% of porn movies, the chick is coming on to the guy? At the very least, she shows up on her own accord and gets naked without any (or at least without much) prompting. Sorry, guys, but that’s not how it works in real life.

If you spend an hour a day watching porn, that’s 365 hours in a year. That’s 3650 hours over a ten year period. If you discover porn at age 13, by age 23, you have nearly 4000 hours of brainwashing that tells you all you that all you have to do is go hang out with your buddy and his hot mom will come on to you.


Despite what feminists would have us think, men and women are innately different. Men are the deciders, the action-takers. My biggest beef with porn is that it makes you shy away from taking action. After all, shouldn’t the waitress just willingly offer you her number? After all, that’s what happened in the porno!

In all likelihood, the cute girl at the beach is not going to cold approach you and offer to take you back to her hotel so you can fuck her in the ass. Instead, you have to take action. You must initiate the conversation. You must put your ego on the line and make the first move. This is the problem with porn: if you watch enough of it, you forget those aforementioned “duh” truths. Instead, you sit around waiting for life to happen, and when it inevitably doesn’t, you feel intense anxiety. “None of these girls are hitting on me . . . I must be ugly/lame/whatever!”

 The Solution

I have tried a million different methods of curing social anxiety. I meditate for 20 minutes a day, every day. I’ve gone through a couple bottles of N-A-C and L-Theanine. They help, but none of them are the magic bullet I’m looking for. I have had the best luck with NoFap. As I’ve written before, I have yet to make it a full 90 days on the NoFap bandwagon. I have made it into the 40s a couple of times, and it’s a magical place to be. Brain fog melts away, energy levels skyrocket, and melancholy thoughts fade into the background. Most importantly, I don’t feel so fucking out of place. Talking to people becomes effortless, and I develop a certain amount of personal magnetism that at present seems completely foreign to me.

I’m participating in NoNothingNovember, and I plan on chronicling my adventures here.