From the chapter “The Chronically Addicted Masturbator”
When the lockdown started, I began working from home and bating more than ever. Online I was doubling down with my talk about being a chronically addicted masturbator and experimenting with just how much I could bate now that I didn’t have that gosh darn commute. On Twitter I began using the hashtag #hypersexual, and on BateWorld, I promoted the hell out of the Chronically Addicted Masturbators group. Just the admission of being a chronically addicted bator was an aphrodisiac. Through the group, I find so many men who fundamentally get it. We literally want dick to rule our lives. How far do these online strangers really take it? I ask them questions, like, “Do you have a job?” “Do you have any friends in the real world left?” The idea of being unemployed to bate all day, losing all your friends, collectively makes our dicks jump.
In a way, I was rebelling against a world that would like to lock down my sexuality, put it neatly into a box and make it palatable. My sexuality is pathological in their eyes. My sexuality challenges people. When I’m in the bate zone, all political correctness goes out the window and down the street. The dirtiest (and always legal) porn was my entry into another hemisphere of my brain. I was drinking whiskey like a fish and smoking my lungs out. I was trying on hedonism to the max, and it was a warm cloak. But I wondered: If I didn’t have to tear myself away from bating to do my job, would that cloak begin to feel like a straitjacket?
From the chapter “Times Square”
Nervously, I phoned a number on an ad. A friendly voice on the other end of the line shared these details: “The orgy will take place at such-and-such hotel in Times Square. Don’t be late; admission will be refused after 10 p.m. Do not ask anything of the front desk. When you knock, the person who answers the door will decide then and there whether you will be allowed entry. There will be a small fee.”
That rainy Friday night, I was as excited as if it were my wedding night. I stopped first at The Eight of Clubs for some liquid courage (did I mention staff could drink for free?) and downed an Orgasm, of all drinks. I ran into Ron, and told him, and him alone, what I was about to do. He said he’d never have the courage. A short subway ride to Times Square, and I found myself running in a downpour, worried that I’d be late. If I missed this opportunity, I wasn’t sure I would ever have the courage to try again. I was
terrified, too, that I would be turned away at the door.
I entered the hotel lobby and felt like a criminal. There I was, riding the elevator with regular civilians who had no idea I was on my way to a bacchanalian fest. My heart pounding in my chest, I kept thinking that I could turn back at any time, but my feet took me to the door and my hand knocked by its own volition.
And against all odds, I was allowed in.