Virgin Man

I am a young, virgin man; yet everybody should know that, save for some poor souls acting as hindrances to themselves in the way of insecurity and fastidiousness, there is absolutely little if any skill to be thought of at all in the acquisition of sex; this gratification can easily be acquired from a dog, prostitute, slut, child, or any variety of persons demonstrating themselves suited for the class of the mentally retarded. However, despite my sexual status and the estimable reputation that has so far been upheld in concert with it, (all credit to God), I am, as only two of my confidantes are aware, heavily oppressed. Since freshman year of high-school, when my problems took on their pernicious potency, it seemed to me best for my existence to be effaced from mankind; nevertheless I fear God’s judgment too much to take my life; there is still comfort to be had in the knowledge that death has its appointed hour. But I’ll be brief. My issues are diverse: I hate mankind and thus myself: we are needlessly wicked to one another, liars, schemers, selfish, gravely inconsiderate; incidentally, I have an insatiable, but suppressible thirst for murder, and fear my excellence in taking up such an enterprise, as doubtless executing my conscience wouldn’t be much of a problem, as I have shown myself capable of this in many minor offenses I’ve foolishly and regrettably indulged in the past; yet, strangely, I am in love with humanity, so deeply in love with it at times, such that I feel almost asphyxiated with affection; consequently, with incidences supporting, I fear I am of two conflicting minds, easily traceable to my morals, all of which derive from the Bible; I terribly want to have sex, in many vast number of methods, many violent ways, humiliating always to my partner, (my imagination is accountable for that), and not only with girls, mostly young girls, but, in strict taste, with some young, effeminate-looking boys also—my pride accounts for this, as I so detest the idea of some lewd, spoilt individual deriving such satisfaction as sexual pleasure from me and walking away to boast, I’d rather the pleasure be one sided; (my pedophilia for girls, in turn, deriving, in combination with my proud domineering desire, from a love for the innocence of the naivety which accompanies youth; amazing how my appreciation demonstrates itself in a sheer malevolent desire); I am burdened by over thinking, (a trait which has branded my behavior aberrant to some folks and somewhat ostracized me; thus my personality outside is more of a ruse than truth), but this seems necessary, I find, if one is to be just—and I sincerely, despite my contrary whims, desire to be fair to people in all possible ways, and so I pray, as only God can keep my sight focused, as it is so easily confounded; also I have a foot fetish, an unignorable foot fetish, accompanied by an inextinguishable tongue fetish, and a growing desire to ingest human flesh, only females, as they seem so delicious to me (the first and final agitation have plagued me since I was a toddler, the middle one in high-school, and reflection has allowed me to pinpoint their origins); I have been agitated by unshakeable, vastly intermittent and unexpected lusts for my siblings, an uncontrollable yet utterly unbearable arousal at the sight of their tongues, which, being intolerable, consequently inflames me, and has rekindled, or rather sustained, my congenital intemperance, despite my committed effort to exterminate it; occasionally I hear voices (perhaps this is more readily associated with my unbalanced sleeping schedule and work strain); I am terrible nervous, an unusual germaphobe, more readily revealed, as depicted in the Aviator, in my manner of drinking milk (can’t drink milk from anybody’s houses, nor leave a glass uncovered, etc.)—I am an unusual germophobe, I say, in that there is no clear pattern to be observed apart from the milk, which is the only consistent case. These are my problems; and whatever others I have failed to mention are likely trivial by comparison and need not be mentioned. Some people suffer physically, visibly to all those around; some inwardly, appearing ostensibly happy. I am of the latter, and consequently, in private, suffer periodical emotional break-downs. So far I haven’t failed, haven’t succumbed to my whims in any dire regard, thank God, as he has been good to me, and no doubt has a purpose for me with these trials; and surprisingly, even, I find I have gained some bit of strength or relief, doubtless ephemeral, from this quick confession.