Suckesspool: Diary Of a Sex-Obsessed Neurotic Who Can Never Get Enough
Meet Suckcesspool, a 30-year-old self-proclaimed sex addict with a penchant for drugs, neurosis, and hooking-up with hot men. He'll be dropping in to over-share. In his first column, Suckcesspool recounts the early development of his underwear fetish, how he tried to turn himself straight, and how it feels to have God hate you so fucking much.
I started masturbating to pro-wrestling around age 3. I remember all the greats — Rick Rude, Tom Zenk, Alex Blaze — all sweaty in their colored undies, grappling to pin each other down. 1… 2…. 3…! Then during kindergarten story time, we all sat cross-legged on the floor and the boy in front of me leaned forward to hear better. His shirt lifted over the red waistband of his Underoos and I began rubbing my crotch. It felt good. And I had no words for my actions or their causes then, but at age 30, I can say, there's nothing like mouthing the hard pouch and rounded cheeks of a stud in briefs. I did it just moments ago.
Very early on, I began paying attention to the underwear of my elementary school friends. I watched Bryan sleeping, his white Hanes briefs covering his perfect skateboarder's ass. Paul's open robe revealed the bulge in his blue fashion briefs as he sat reading to me in bed. I wrestled all night with my Asian pal, pushing our crotches together as we panted and grappled, pinning each other down again and again and again.
From middle school through high school, I carried around a coded list of all the boys I knew: their underwear preferences, body type, and my imagined cock sizes for each of them. I shoplifted underwear from department stores —thongs, briefs and athletic shorts wadded into my crotch. I tucked issues of Inches, Honcho, and Mandate into my waistband and walked out of Barnes and Noble sweating profusely with a boner. I went home, locked the bathroom door, massaged my throbbing prick through the stolen underwear, flipped to the biggest cock in the magazine and fondled myself until the pouch became moist with precum. I shot a convulsing load as quietly as possible into the sink while my brother and his jocky friends played Mortal Kombat shirtless in the adjoining room.
They had no idea that sometimes I jerked off to them, putting them in underwear and having them battle one another, wrenching each another into sexually-humiliating submission holds, their hard dicks smothering each other's faces, forcefully jerking each other off until… until… "FINISH HIM!!" Ughnnn…. my hot load spurted onto my fist and into the shower drain. And then I toweled off, got dressed and pretended to read a book as they sat half-naked in our bedroom and battling one another to the death.
My Baptist God didn't approve and I didn't imagine my zealous mom or abusive dad would either. I grew up in the height of the AIDS epidemic with the Moral Majority reminding me how God had sent the disease to get rid of scum like me. I knew what a faggot was — my dad had a hairdresser — and I wasn't gonna be one. Faggots sucked at Field Day (like me), got called "pussy" (like me), and had a lot of female friends (just like me). A high school acquaintance came out and he became a lisping, over-opinionated, sparkly-dressed, bed-hopping, AIDS walking, techno-loving, gay culture obsessed queen. He looked how I felt and I feared anyone who looked at me knew we were no different. But I didn't want to be a femmy punchline, an AIDS-ridden pariah on Tammy Faye's talk show, or another abomination burning in hell — God gives so goddamned much.
To scare the fear of God into us teenagers, my mom made us watch The Omen Parts 1, 2, & 3, and I couldn't help but feel sorry for the antichrist, Damien Thorn. He was born evil, he didn't want to be evil. Who would choose a life that meant being hunted down and stabbed by religious zealots? I couldn't be gay, an embodiment of such unnatural sin. I was a good kid. I wanted a wife and kids, I wanted to become a teacher. Now some parent would accuse me of molesting their child, some drunken fratnoy would stomp my face in and leave my eye leaking from its broken socket.
Then one day, my dad accidentally poisoned Mr. Belden, our beloved family Schnauzer, by spraying ant poison too close to its food bowl. I begged God on my knees with tears streaming down, "Please take the sickness from his body! I promise I'll throw away the magazines, I'll stop jerking-off to wrestling, anything! Just make him better… PLEASE!!!" I prayed to save both of us. He got better, we both did. Then I saw the rippling abs of WCW's Marcus Bagwell stretched in Paul Orendorff's punishing grapevine — Bagwell screamed out for mercy of his tag-team partner as Orendorff pulled even tighter — and I shot the biggest, hottest load ever clear over my cum sock onto my basketball shorts and shag carpeting. Mr. Belden died the next day.
God had foresaken me. So in college I tried to maintain my godly heterosexuality by dating women, but I rarely went past second base because, "I respected them too much!"
"Aww, you're so sweet," they said. I eventually had sex with one but I freaked out, curling into the fetal position and crying as she smoothed my hair and asked me, "What's wrong?"
I couldn't. To get hard I had to imagine that her smooth small-tittied body belonged to a twink. I lusted after guys in the locker room infinitely more than I had ever regarded her. I regularly jerked off to wrestling with my door locked and at the last minute, right before cumming, I gave the male wrestlers breasts and vaginas so I could technically cum to a female. I had tried to recondition myself to find women sexy the same way Pavlov reconditioned his dogs to salivate at the sound of a bell… and I had failed.
It didn't work and at age 21, I finally stopped calling myself "bisexual", came out, and got a boyfriend of six years. But even now, almost ten years later I continue wrestling with my desire.
I've always felt as if my lusts will one day kill me as it has others. I go to the supermarket and wanna suck the butcher's fat meat, I wanna finger fuck the cereal-buying father until he precums on the tile, I wanna pull down that college kid's underwear in the soda aisle and rim him so the stockboy can watch. I never do. I'm most perverted in my own mind, but as I get older I worry about ending up alone. I like spooning on rainy Saturday mornings, I like giving surprise gifts to a guy who knows my middle name. Life's a lot longer than just 7 inches and I don't wanna find myself alone in the own, left literally holding my dick as the lovers nuzzle in the park.
I'm 5'9, 165, funny, handsome, and good in the sack. I'm also an anti-depressant popping, Cialis using gay porn blogger who's sucked over a hundred dicks and is currently attending sexual addicts anonymous to figure out whether I'm emotionally immature, really horny, or just fucked in the head. I've fucked three different guys this week and am attending a sex party next Saturday. I'm always safe, I never swallow, and (amazingly) have only ever caught scabies.
But every time I take an HIV test, I know it's gonna be positive because a whore like me deserves it. Every unsmiling nurse who walks through the room before I get my results knows I've just become HIV+. But so far I'm negative and the sexual health counselors just roll their eyes when I tell them that I'm getting tested because I suck dick without using condoms.
I love sex, I fucking love it. But sometimes I think I love it so much, it's going to fucking kill me.
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