Fuck her or marry her?

So this memoir has been interesting so far. I made a conscious decision early on to tell the TRUTH as much as possible, meaning, not sugar coat my story by omitting my bad behaviors, because, I reasoned, if you write a memoir in which you only take credit for your successes while blaming everyone else for your failures, well… you might be a Dostoyevksy reference but I figured I wanted to come clean and not write some self-serving narrative blaming all the people who shamed me and ostracized and bullied and etc. but show that I own my own shit too.

But as described in the previous chapter, this led to some interesting pickles. It comes off as the story of a sad loner who only thinks about himself and furthermore engages in all sorts of depraved activities. Which, in fairness, was how many of those years felt to me. Hence the Nobody section of my life.

But as I went on and got more and more contacts from people saying they could not be brave enough to tell their similar shames, and as people from long past in my life made contact and I reconnected to MYSELF and discovered I AM NOT ASHAMED OF WHO I AM, I kept going, fascinated by this dynamic. A memoir blog with people afraid to comment for fear of being seen associating with this dumb bastard but which clearly, a lot of people are reading and more register each day. And which was magically healing me. And making me reflect on why I lost the loves and friendships and kept being hounded as a loser by people for years. That is, each new chapter would bring extreme new shame spirals as I suddenly realized anyone out there, from my past or even people I’m trying to meet now, could read all this shit!! Oh no!! I did drugs!! I was unloved by my crazy dysfunctional family!! I fucked up relatipnships and was ghosted and shunned from communities!! And then when the shame really processed I would finally LOOK at those past things that I had tried so hard to avoid, and that, my friends, is what healing trauma looks like.

I also have more authentic connections in the world everyday, with depths I never had in those years of being a loser. And every day I feel less shame, and more capacity to function and open myself.

But still. I hesitate for months between some chapters because that healing shit ain’t for the light hearted. You gotta feel that pain you’ve been suppressing for years, and maybe even hear from people in the past who always thought you were a piece of shit but were afraid to say so. (Because, you know, their own shit is not healed. 100%)

So yeah. I had gotten up to the college years, talked some about drugs (though don’t get me started on psych meds), and realized that at about age 22 was my first encounter with what I think the kids these days call a sex worker. Back then it was a prostitute or more colloquially, a whore. An ugly word, I can see why political correctness is so important. But I didn’t want to write about this. Surely some things must never be discussed. Surely no one will give me a job or chat at church or want to date me if I’m openly sharing shit like this. Surely I must be crazy.

Shame takes time.

My first encounter with a whore was while at college, at Boston University. I saw an ad in the back of a newspaper and thought, wow, that’s a real thing and if it’s in the newspaper, I guess the cops don’t, um… I was excited, titillated, because, well. I was terrified of women at this point. Never mind my mom’s stuff, some of which has been written here and some of which didn’t really render itself into consciousness until years later with lots of healing work, but also, the love of my life, my first true love, had told me she never wanted to see me again forever and I really understood, when it came to being a person, I was a piece of shit. My only sex with, you know, *real* women as opposed to the ones you have to pay for with cash like some filthy degenerate, were this one kinda okay hippie at Brandeis, and this incredibly horny half-Italian, half-Korean chick who liked to wear catholic school girl outfits and fuck fuck fuck every day but I had to break up when I realized she was kinda stalking me and also never wanted to do anything else, like rent a movie or get dinner. Good memories.

Where was I?

Oh so I saw this ad and thought, wow, I could just get some cash RIGHT NOW, get laid, and walk away. No strings attached as they say. [Ed: Now, mind you, my 22 year-old self was not really conscious of things like sex trafficking, because in his loser mind, if a woman was saying she wanted sex, she wanted sex. What else was there to consider? He had a lot of unhealed wounds as they say.]

So I hopped the Red Line and headed to some tenement apartment in Southie or wherever it was. I don’t remember. WHen she opened the door my heart sank, as she was much older and pretty saggy looking, like really unattractve, smelled of cigarettes. But I felt, I’m here, I kinda have to go through with this or she would feel really shitty. I’m not making that up (none of this memoir is made up), I thought that. So we had some sex and it functionally worked but was not the hot relief I’d been so excited about.

Needless to say, it took a few years before I’d want to try that again.

But in later 20s, in Georgia, having transferred to UGA to try once again to get to know my father who had moved there, with beautiful sorority girls everywhere and Southern heat and my chronic inability to get courage to ask girls out, sooner or later something was gonna give. Back then, Athens had a Hooters, a strip club, and a gentleman’s fantasy massage whatever thing, all on one street near the main campus. Losing my religion indeed.

Hooters was meh. And I just actually snickered writing this at the irony here, I found Hooters kind of offensive and exploitative. And discriminatory in its hiring. I’m chuckling at why those other establishments never offended me as much. B___ and I would sometimes go for the $0.10 wings.

The strip club, I forget the name, I went to a couple times in my 5 years in Georgia, and I kinda got into it. Gave the pole dancer a couple bucks. I remember one of the dancers really looking into my eyes and smiling and I liked that. The beer was okay I guess.

The gentleman’s place. Oh right it as actually billed as “lingerie modeling”. You went into a private room and she came out all sexy and slithered around and touched me and I got really hard and that was hot. I think for me it helped how obvious it was that that was what was supposed to happen. I didn’t have to agonize like at Hooters, are you allowed to take them in the back? Or with college women in the library, who presumably the last thing in the world they’d want was sex with a stupid unlovable shmuck like I was.

And then there was the early days of the internet, where you could just browse images and numbers of these super hot girls who were literally saying, come pay me and we will have sex. And I had to try this out, sounded awesome.

Well it kinda was at first. But expensive af. I mean, given that about 3/4 of the time over the years into my 30s, it would turn out really lousy in one way or another, and you’re out like $200. That’s a pretty bad habit so I limited it to maybe 3-4 times a year in the heat of the summer, when I would like awake with the sheets soaking wet and a freight train running through the middle of my head. I usually had an actual girlfriend every year or so too, but would last a couple months and fizzle. So much of the time I was so longing for just touch and compassion but I knew since my high school sweetheart had left me and said she never wanted anything to do with me again, for reasons unspecified — in fact, she had said explicitly, “This was a great final summer together and I don’t want you to think it wasn’t, but I’m a pathological liar (???) and never want to see you again, even as a friend.” I agonized for many many years over what I had done, but I knew only that I was.. I didn’t really know. I just felt tons of shame.

So I did what anyone with tons of shame would do, I called hookers and fucked them.

Cut to my marriage, which I’ll return to when I resume the chronology of my sad story. We met, fell in love, yadda yadda. Actually about a month in she asked me if she should keep fucking her buddy W__ and I blew up at her, saying I thought WE were together!! So she just cheated on me with him and others throughout the marriage unbeknownst to me and then confessed but then tried to renege on the confession while some other horrible things were also happening in 2013 and I was SO FUCKING ANGRY, that she had been cheating with multiple people since the goddamned engagment while I made money and paid the bills and blah blah. It didn’t seem to me fair to compare my occasionally visiting a prostitute in some hotel on the waterfront, because, in my logic, that was not an ongoing emotional attachment and so was not really cheating.

You see how it is? For everyone?

Anyway my wife did other things that we shall see what I choose to share when I get there. Since she like so many ex lovers and loves chose to shame me within her communities while denying to me any wrongdoing ever, I just got sadder and angrier over time. Why does everyone leave? Why am I so pathetic I go to fucking strangers to fuck them for money?

Everyone says I love you except whores. Well until the second love of my life, who HATES the concept of whores because of her own shaming and shame. Its all trauma. It’s trauma that can be healed and lifted by simply looking at the truth. And it AINT EASY. It’s fucking hard shit. It’s brutal because that trauma memory was intense and has been relived a million and one times in flashbacks and suppressed memory that eventually takes over your brain entirely and makes you think you’ve always been a loser nothing piece of shit. I advocate healing work.

When that second love and I were talking about building a life together, and getting all tongue tied on disparate concepts of what “married” meant, since I had been married once and she had the model of her longstanding Catholic parents — you know, together happily ever after except for the constant shaming and drinking and yet wonderful and erudite and scholarly and we all have these light and dark sides in us. Depends on your point of view. But so when we were talking about marriage and I was trying ot orient to actually addressing logistics like could we get buy in from her friends and how could I live there if her daughter hated me and made it pretty violently clear that she wanted me GONE and yet was dearly important to her mom… While her mom did what traumatized people do when someone really sees them and gives them long starved intimacy, she became hyper sexual and only wanted sex and I was overloaded and could not handle the energy at all so when I went back to Colorado for a brief vacation to water my dead plants and fruits flies in my “mansion” as she called my little apartment of sadness, I did what any exhausted, sexed up, totally alone with a few states between us person would do.

I cheated.

Now, never mind that she had guys texting her night and day while she was sleeping when we were together and clearly was having a lot of sexy time still. She INSISTED that marriage means monogamy forever and since we were talking about marriage and she insisted that, and she also was questioning me about how come this one week you stopped being horny for me every day?, I started to feel very conflicted.

Because here’s the thing. I had gotten it into my head with this one person, the second great love of my entire life, who I had known a tiny bit decades earlier and discovered our lives paralleled each other in trauma and shame and other bizarre cosmic signs from the universe — I decided that her broken Grace was telling me, from God (who for some fucking reason I was beginning to directly experience having grown up a secular liberal atheist), that Jason (Truth) must start telling the truth no matter where it lies. So I agonized. I could not marry and restore her good graces and do MY version of a marriage, which is to be honest with each other and come back from failures and mistakes, IF I were cheating on her. Cheating meaning doing one thing and saying another. It’s fine to me if you have an agreement. But I’m crazy.

So I HAD to tell her. I knew the marriage would be on false legs if I did not. And I had YEARS of shame, never admitted to anyone, that I’d slept with fucking whores. So I told her, tears in my eyes, knowing this would be our end. At first she had the most angelic beautiful smile when I said I had slept with sex workers before. Until I pointed out I had done this a few weeks earlier. She got pissed. We kept at the relationship for another few months actually, including trying to be supportive while we both ended up manic in mental hospitals, and kinda doing a post mortem where every day she told me she was done with me forever (lie), wanted nothing to do with me (lie), would never love me again (?), wanted sex and phone sex and so on and so on, until she finally severed ties forever because her mom and daughter found out she was still in contact with me.

Now, I should feel ashamed to be airing all this publicly but then, Katie posted for WEEKS on Facebook to her 8500 followers and entire family and anyone curious from our old town that Jason SLEPT WITH WHORES!!!!

And so I feel kinda okay writing this on my stupid little blog that no one reads anyway.

But I love you Katie and what I was fucking TRYING TO SAY was not I’m done with you forever, but that I think this is TOXIC, which is recovery slang for very bad energies and behaviors, and that we must not remain in a toxic dynamic even as I love you and want you to be part of my story forever because YOU ARE. So are you Stacy. It’s not possible to just push someone off the face of the earth and be done with them or have them medically erased from your brain, they are still out there and you are suppressing your own shadow of what happened and that’s not my work to do except that the entire planet needs to wake up and heal in order for us to ascend to heaven but that’s not my story. That’s Everybody and I still haven’t even gotten to the Somebody years in which I had a wife and a career and the whole shebang.

But I love you, for real, and hope you are continuing on your own journeys and coming to understand better your akashic record as we… you get the picture. Maybe.

SO yeah I like whores.

I liked most the ones I didn’t even fuck, curiously. This one girl who grew up in foster homes being abused left and right and was training to be an assassin and had an incredible aura. Or others that I’m not allowed to talk about yet as the shame is still so raw and scary. But I love you so much and I love all of us, Gaia, humanity. That’s the goddamned truth.

Fuck you. Hahaha. Or don’t but I feel less alone every passing year. In my shitty little apartment.

Oh ps please no one call the cops, they think I’m a crazy liberal mentally ill drug addict or something and I don’t want to be evicted which is a current crisis going on. But whatever happens I trust in God to sort us all out.