#thesideshow April 18th 2016 Five Poems by Mirissa D. Price- Day #18 of National Poetry Month
April 18, 2016
Fuck Passover
#thesideshow April 19th 2016 Fuck Passover by Lisa Badner-Day #19 of National Poetry Month
April 19, 2016

Bottom-Dog Blues: B. Diehl’s Unedited Ramblings for the Alienated, Awkward, Broken, & Bored (ENTRY #9: SAYING GOODBYE TO LOVELESS SEX)




Picture1W hen I quit doing drugs back in 2010, my mind and body were freaking out. After being numb for so long, how could I re-learn how to cope with the depression? The anxiety? The self-hatred? The obsessive-compulsive thoughts that made me rip off my own fingernails? For a while, I was screaming my throat raw in a crappy metal band, but that didn’t last –– and there was no other outlet for me at the time. At 20 years old, I was not yet Picture2a poet or columnist –– and since I wasn’t snorting Adderall, eating MDMA, or smoking gram after gram of pot anymore, I felt like I needed a new kind of release.

Wait –– let me back up a little. Before 2010, I had slept with 3 girls –– 2 of which I loved, or at least thought I loved. The third girl was a friend I almost died with after we both got hit by a train in 2009.

I guess I should tell you about the train. We didn’t hear the damn thing coming until the last second –– and the bridge we were walking on was ridiculously narrow. (Think of the movie Stand by Me.) Of course we tried to run, but the train nailed us just as we reached the end of the bridge.

My friend fucked up her arm. I fractured a rib…and both of my lungs collapsed. The only reason we lived was because the train had a “cow catcher” on the front of it, so instead of getting sucked under or torn in half, we just got tossed to the side like a bunch of cattle. My life did not flash before my eyes. I saw nothing but blackness –– and when I woke up, I was being shoved into a helicopter and being flown to a hospital in Bethlehem, PA, where I stayed for 3 days. They had to shove a tube in me and inflate my lungs back to normal. They gave me Percocet and Vicodin. This was all totally insane –– a huge blur of what felt like a psychedelic nightmare. But everything was very real.

Picture3Unlike a smart person, I didn’t exactly turn my life around after almost dying. I could have had a spiritual awakening, but I didn’t. Instead, I had a nervous breakdown when I got home and started eating my painkillers like breath mints. I even sold some of them and then bought Adderall and MDMA with the money. I was always high and had no idea what I was doing at the time, but subconsciously, I think the loveless sex started because I was trying to fill the void that was created after my second real relationship failed. In other words, even though I didn’t realize it, I was basically using someone to get over someone else. So basically, I’m an asshole.

The girl I got hit by the train with knew I was a mental mess. You could see I was a mental mess just by looking at me because I basically had the demeanor of a zombie. My head was so scrambled that I could barely finish a sentence when I spoke, but I hid my madness well by being my usual quiet self.

I stopped going outside unless it was to buy drugs. Nobody knew the extent of what I was doing except for a few close friends. I would hide in my room and eat pills, then this girl would come over, we’d fuck a few times, and she’d leave. That was my entire life. I was a high-school dropout and had no job. I was nothing. This routine of mine lasted for a few months –– basically up until this girl went away to college. And once she was gone, I knew I had nothing but the drugs again.

I had nothing but drugs until late 2009 when I started my metal band. But I was on drugs then, too. My band members didn’t 13020038_10208912730554064_249926230_nknow. They just thought I was insane. I would ditch recording sessions to get high. I would act weird at shows and never speak in-between songs. I’d roll around like a maniac and punch the ground during songs. Eventually, they just came to their senses and kicked me out. They said I was way too unstable and way too hard to work with. Understandable. They were absolutely right. But fuck. I was upset.

I guess being kicked out of that band was a wakeup call. I quit doing pills in August of 2010. I even quit smoking pot. I got my GED. I got a full-time job in a mailroom. I met someone special and ended up in a serious relationship, which lasted all the way up until the end of 2012.

Here is where things get interesting: when life started to get horribly lonely after I lost my girlfriend of two years, I discovered poetry. I read Bukowski’s Love is a Dog From Hell, and something just clicked. All I wanted to do was read –– not just Bukowski’s stuff, but poetry in general. I fell in love with Cummings, Plath, Ginsberg. I fell in love with Billy Collins, Dave Newman, Frank Reardon, John Yamrus, Wolfgang Carstens, Rob Plath, Hosho McCreesh.

I started writing my own poetry in January of 2013, but I wasn’t any good until 2014. When I finally grew a pair of balls and began submitting stuff to magazines and sharing my poems online, I immediately began to notice something strange: for the first time in my life, I was attracting girls. Lots. And lots. Of girls. Being the headcase I am, I couldn’t control myself. I wanted them all. Girls with tiny tits. Girls with huge tits. Girls with butt cheeks like strawberries. Crazy girls. Sane girls. Blondes. Redheads. They flocked to me, and I let them do it. I would get a flirty message on Facebook or Twitter –– and all of a sudden I’d be naked somewhere with a total stranger. The better I wrote, the prettier the girls were, so I kept writing better stuff, and the girls kept coming –– and eventually I got picky and only wanted the ones who looked Photoshopped in person.

I had sex in a cornfield. I had sex in a car in broad daylight on the side of a busy street. I took a bus to Philadelphia to have sex with some college girl in her dorm room. I drove to Reading, PA, to have sex with someone I met on Tinder –– which ended with her falling asleep and me sneaking out her window and almost getting attacked by her neighbor’s dog. I had sex in the parking lot of a hookah lounge. I fingered a girl on a public park bench. I received oral sex while playing Donkey Kong on Super Nintendo. I made homemade porn on my MacBook. I had sex with a stranger in my bed while she was on her period and got blood everywhere. (I had to literally burn the sheets.) There were two incidents where I passed out during sex because I kept on telling girls to choke me. I’ve wasted hundreds of dollars on handcuffs, bondage tape, vibrators, and condoms. (I never used those vibrators for what you’re probably thinking I used them for. However, one girl totally stuck one down my throat once and it was weird.)

This is all really hard for me to admit. I don’t see any of this as a good thing. But honestly, I’m just glad I don’t have fucking HIV. If you’re wondering about the number of girls I’ve slept with in the past few years, I don’t have that number, but it’s embarrassingly high –– and I’ve finally had enough. Maybe there was a time where I believed loveless sex was truly helping me find meaning in life, but it never was. It was just like doing drugs. I’d feel amazing during the loveless sex, but then immediately feel like shit afterwards. There was a comedown.

I understand that I am a sex addict. This, right here, is me admitting it for the very first time. And here’s what makes my addiction even harder for me: I’m a hopeless romantic, man. The last 4 girls I slept with –– I developed feelings for them and basically ended up fucking myself in the heart every time. Enough is enough. I have recently made a vow to myself to never have sex outside of a committed relationship again. Loveless sex is shit. I’m tired of trying to cure my depression by doing things that ultimately make me more depressed. I need to be smarter, from this day on.

The human body is supposed to be sacred –– as is sex. When you start sleeping around all the time, you start to forget that. Sex is meant to be more than a physical connection. It’s supposed to be emotional. It’s supposed to be spiritual. It’s supposed to be about trust and love. None of these things exist in the room when you’re fucking a stranger. And if you’re quick to give yourself away to anyone who wants you, you must not value yourself very much. So don’t be like me. Love yourself because you’re fucking beautiful.

Picture4Let me say this: I never led girls on and said I wanted more than sex –– that I wanted a relationship or something. I never lied to get girls into bed. Ever. But I have to be honest: my addiction was on the verge of completely taking over my mind, and I know that for a fact. I know I was turning into a dickhead. Just a few months ago, I fingered a girl while she was talking on the phone with her boyfriend. To that guy: wherever you are, I’m sure you’ve caught on by now, but holy fuck…I’m sorry (even though you cheated on her, too).

Here’s the deal now: if I don’t love you, I’m not having sex with you. To those who I’ve had loveless sex with before finally developing some self-respect: you’re important to me. But consider yourselves lucky because sex with me –– sex with anyone –– is a luxury. (Plus, I’m awesome in bed because I’m a Pisces with weird fetishes.) So yeah. No one else is jumpin’ on this dick unless it’s out of love –– love in it’s purest motherfucking form. I am ridding my life of loveless sex, and I wouldn’t be writing this unless I felt committed to the thought.

Never attempt to fill the void with drugs or loveless sex, people. I don’t have all of the answers. I’m still trying to fill my own void. But writing helps. Creating helps. And learning to love yourself in this day and age –– that’s just legendary, my friends. Respect yourself. Have high standards. Never settle. You’ve got this.

P.S. Stay away from hoodhats…unless you want the clap. Have you ever pissed lava? Have you ever needed to have your package fondled by a creepy/old man in a lab coat? I got a Q-tip shoved up my dick. And that was just as awful as it sounds, really.

Actual quote from my doctor: “THIS IS WHAT YA GET FOR MESSIN’ AROUND WITH A SKANK!”


Okay. That’s all for now. Check back in a week when my chlamydia is gone. I have so much more to tell you.