VIP players can communicate

I was watching this youtube video called Keys to the VIP. The first "player" was describing why he is the ultimate player. He points to his bookshelf and says, "In order to communicate with girls, you have to be able to... intellectually communicate with them."

uh... yeah he's a one-nighter and nothing more.

But he did bring up an interesting point. In order to communicate, you HAVE to communicate. Chop out a few words, and you know what he really meant to say.

I suck at communication, and as a gemini I'm supposed to be the best. I'd rather not say anything and hope things work out in my favor. I have this tendency to jump from one extreme to the other in my thinking and it comes out in my words. I don't make sense. I confuse myself. I confuse others.

I'm confused right now.

Monday night after a fun shag, RedSox wasn't as tired as he claimed to be. In fact he was rather talkative... and he asked me if I was really getting off every time we had sex.

If that isn't the kiss of death, I'm sure I could find some poisonous gloss and plant one on him... or myself.

I don't get off every time I have sex. I don't get off any time I have sex. It's me. I have a mental block. I enjoy sex so much, but I focus so much on the act more than how I feel.

I guess I should go back to the beginning. I'll make it short. My mom is very religious and shunned all sins. My dad didn't wanna get nagged, so he went along with everything. We never talked about sex, nor were we ever comfortable enough to bring it up. Hormones kicked in, and I thought my feelings were dirty and sinful. I thought only men masterbated. I never touched myself, never really did anything about it.

In college I hooked up more than the average girl, about 2 guys per weekend. Four years of that, and well you can do the math. BUT I never had sex with any of them. Most of the men reading this may ask how that is possible. It was a power thing. I took control and they all loved it.

By the end of senior year I was ready for more. My first time was great. I trusted my friend. He was a complete gentleman. He made sure lent was over, and I assured him Easter was the day before. The act wasn't dirty. It didn't hurt. I felt great.

So great that you could say I went on a rampage after that. I couldn't get enough sex. I never orgasmed, but it still felt incredible. I didn't know what an orgasm was until months later when Berklee went down on me. I thought I was having a heart attack... a really satisfying and wonderful heart attack. But a heart attack nonetheless.

I freaked out internally and wouldn't let him go down on me again. I didn't want to die naked... back then. Now I think it's the way to go.

And Death by Orgasm? Well it sounds like a cocktail, but I do love COCKtails.

Anyways, life went on. Men came and went. Sex came and I never came...

My first therapist helped me get over my fear of myself. Now I can't stop masterbating. My new therapist is helping me get over my fear of relationships. I'm still a work in progress.

I told RedSox the truth. I told him it's a comfort thing. It was hard to get all the words out in a coherent and well thought manner, but I'll get there.

And when I do, I'll have the keys to the VIP.