Five Grand and Nothing to Do
At the beginning of 2000, I got a new job together with a $5,000 signing bonus. To celebrate, I decided to visit a local, upscale "Gentlemen's Club", which was something I had never done before, nor could I have afforded to. I hadn't been around a woman in a long time, and I was aching for a release.

When I first entered, I was extremely nervous, not knowing exactly what to expect. The main area had very little light. It enhanced the ambience, but it also made it hard to see. I heard some music playing. I also noticed three strippers dancing halfway down the room on a stage. "Wow, I'm around naked chicks in person," I thought, which was something that only happened to me once before. I was very excited but nervous at the same time. Everyone else looked at ease, as if they had been here several times before, which was probably true. I took the first seat at the bar. It was closest to the door, which was important in case I had second thoughts and decided to haul my ass out of there.

Aside from the strippers and the audience, I eventually noticed several lovely women spread out around the room, all appearing to be in their 20's, roaming around and talking to different men. Soon a buxom blonde, around 5'5", started to talk to me. She was as dazzling as any model or Hollywood actress one sees on the movies or TV. In my entire life I had never been around a woman like this, let alone have one talk to me. I felt more nervous than flattered, though, which made conversation difficult. She seemed to know what she was doing, however. We had a light chitchat and exchanged small details about our lives. I don't remember any details about what I said, and the only thing I could remember her saying was that she was Italian-American. After a while she said, "So, do you want to have some fun?" No red-blooded man alive could have said no.

We were about to leave when another woman, just as enticing as the one I was with, approached us. She was a tall, natural blonde, at least 5'11". She said, "Would you like a twosome?" I had to stop myself immediately from saying yes, which was what was screaming in my mind. This was the first time in a long time that I was with any woman. I decided that having a twosome would be overkill, in spite of the wonderment of having a fantasy turned into a reality. I also said to myself that it would probably cost me an arm and a leg. Therefore, I grudgingly declined, and I continued walking with the original woman I was with.

I followed her into a dark hallway that eventually led to a stairway. We went upstairs, where I saw several rooms. The layout looked similar to that of a hotel, except that it was smaller, there was very little light, and the doors were close to each other, hinting that the rooms were small. She led me inside one of the rooms. It was a cramped room, about the size of a typical bathroom, though I was sure no activities that typically occur in a bathroom were about to occur here. She invited me to lie down on a bed that was against the wall.

The subject of money took place. Before going into the club I had cashed out $1,000 out of the $5,000 I received from the bonus, though I didn't really expect to spend more than $300 this night. Unfortunately she must have sensed my naïveté, because she managed to wheedle out of me the amount of cash I was carrying. She ended up milking the entire $1,000 out of me. In my defense I can only say that I had no clue how this kind of thing worked. I knew that there was a base fee, but I also knew that only a percentage goes to her and the rest goes to the club. So I assumed I was also supposed to pay a tip, but I wasn't sure, and I thought it was highly unlikely that $1,000 was the amount of money typically spent in these situations. For Christ's sake, I thought, for a fraction of that money anywhere else I could get.... (Oops, I don't think I can talk about that here. Man, censorship sucks. Why should I censor the natural form of human expression? Censorship is basically lying. It prohibits one from telling the truth about how human beings really think and act.) I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, but I had the faint notion that leaving a cheap tip would turn her against me, and that was the last thing I wanted to happen. Moreover, I was too excited to care about money at that point (if you can imagine a person being in such a state).

Next the fun started. She slowly took off her top. She had beautiful, full, natural breasts. Their size looked to be 36, or 38D or 38DD -- I really don't know how to measure these things. All I knew was that they made my jaw drop. I felt like I was in heaven at that point already, given how horny a guy I was. Then she walked over and laid on top of me. I could feel her tits on my chest, and her face was so close to mine I could have kissed her just by lurching my head forward a little.

Then, surprisingly, we continued the light conversation we had before we came upstairs. I seriously doubted that this was what normally took place when one does what we were doing. We discussed things like life, philosophy, and psychology. I told her that I was very shy and that I almost never go after women. It also occurred to me to seize this $1,000 opportunity and ask her questions about women in general. I didn't have any female friends at the time, so I asked her things like what were women like, on a psychological level, what things do women like about men, how women want to be treated by men, and so on. Throughout this discussion she was grinding her chest into mine and massaging my crotch, where I had a raging erection. I remember a thought crossing my mind: "This is definitely not something that happens every day."

At one point, she asked me, "Why are you here?" "What do you mean," I answered. "Guys like you don't usually come here. You should be doing things like going to bars," she said. I wasn't sure, but I thought I had just received one of the best compliments of my entire life. I always thought of myself as a complete loser who could only score if I paid for it. Women (and men) almost always ignore me as if I were invisible, let alone think of me in a romantic way. I was too shy to press her for it, but I think she meant that I wasn't as gross, disgusting a creature as the usual types of men that come here. In other words, she meant that I was at least decently good-looking. Maybe I'm just a lunatic, but hearing that statement from a woman like this would have been like Albert Einstein saying to me, "Hey, you're pretty smart."

Afterward she led me into another room where I noticed a glass partition. I sat on a stool on one side of the partition. Then, on the other side of the partition, she came in, stripped completely naked, turned on some music, and started an incredibly sexy dance. Before we went in, she told me that I could masturbate on the other side. I don't know if it was the novel conversation we had earlier, or the fact that I was completely clueless about going to a club like this, or the fact that I was terrified out of my mind during this entire experience, or the fact that I was slowly realizing that I had just been gypped out of thousand dollars. Whatever the reason, this was the first time I could remember having to jerk off under pressure (the time I had paid for was running out). Therefore, it just didn't happen. In spite of being in front of the perfect woman dancing completely naked in front of me, my penis was as limp as a wet sheet of toilet paper. Time was quickly running out and she was patiently waiting for me to cum, but I had no choice and I weakly said, "Sorry, I can't." I felt so humiliated.

Later we said our goodbyes and before she left she said, "Stay in the bar for a while. Order some champagne, you deserve it." I did think I deserved it, but if she had told me to go climb Mt. Everest, I would have mindlessly done that as well. So I ordered an entire bottle of champagne and had it by myself. I felt terribly awkward, and I was sure I looked like a complete loser. My only excuse is that I was still in a daze over the events that had transpired that evening.

Gradually I came to my senses and attempted to make a quick, discreet exit, but another woman approached me before I could do so. She was a tall woman with long brown hair and pretty eyes. Needless to say I thought she was exceedingly beautiful, as I was certain all the women here were. I knew I should have left but I felt compelled to talk to her. She had some trouble speaking English, and she told me she was from Mexico. She put her hand on my lap, but it felt as if she had just put her hand on my dick -- that's how excited I was. Strangely, I felt connected to her and very comfortable talking to her -- more comfortable than I felt talking to the woman I was with earlier that night. Eventually she invited me to come with her, but after going through the experience of losing a thousand dollars in the span of a few minutes, I realized that this was my cue to leave. I gently told her "no." This was terribly difficult because I felt like if I met her on my own outside of this club, we would have gotten along extremely well. Painfully I noticed that she was upset, and she spent some time trying to change my mind. I even noticed her being angry, which frightened me coming from a woman as divine as she. I was certain, however, that she was upset not because she really did like me and was sad to see me go, but because she had wasted her time on a pathetic... client when she could have been making money already off someone else.

I finally managed to leave. I was still carrying that bottle of champagne. I had drunk half of it, which made me feel slightly buzzed. Walking outdoors in the cold air sobered me up a little. I left the club with a feeling of awe at what I just experienced, but at the same time, I castigated myself for stupidly giving my money away.

I'm feeling a lot of despair today. I should be used to it by now, but feelings are feelings, and despair is despair. I went to the doctor's clinic this morning for a sonogram of my prostate. That clinic is the worst clinic I've ever been to. It's almost always standing-room only, and at times it's beyond that. It can take 15 to 20 mins. just to sign in, and that's if the receptionists decide to pay attention to me. After that, I'm lucky if I get called within 90 mins. Then there's the second waiting room for the particular specialist or operation I have to receive, and I have to wait even longer, as if my nerves aren't frayed enough by then.

Today when they called me, I found out I was supposed to drink 1 1/2 glasses of water an hour before the sonogram. Today they told me that. It would have been nice if they told me beforehand so that I could have drank the water before coming to the clinic. So I had to drink the water now and wait yet another hour before they could do the sonogram. Why me? Incidentally, all this hubbub was necessary on the account of finding out there was blood in my urine and that I felt a burning sensation whenever I urinated. I hope it's nothing serious.

The only other event today was that I called to find out if I was summoned for jury duty. I wasn't, but I have to call again Monday night. I served as a juror once back in '98, and it was quite cool. Actually it was a boring automobile accident case where nobody even got hurt. The guy was just trying to milk some money out of the city, but he obviously staged the whole thing. It was boring, but I used to watch Law & Order a lot, and I tend to enjoy the feeling of power of deciding someone's fate. :)

The past few days have been completely empty. I haven't communicated with a single soul since last Monday morning. No grocery clerks, no cashiers, no phone calls, no e-mails, no frivolous internet chats, nothing. I haven't left my apartment since Monday either. The worst times are when I'm home and I feel like I have absolutely nothing to do. It makes me feel like cracking my skull open. But this is not uncommon for me. Depression paralyzes me. In my judgment there's nothing out there worth going to. People constantly tell me, "Get out, go for a walk, do something." Sorry, I will not go out just for the sake of going out. If I do things, I do them for a substantive reason, and most often to produce a tangible effect. If I go out and take a walk, it may not cause any changes in me at all, I may not feel any better, and it certainly won't cure my depression. "It might," you may say, but that means that I would need luck, and luck has abandoned me long, long ago.

Even writing this feels like a chore. The only reason I'm bothering with this is that it would be such a waste in the event that I do end up committing suicide and all that happens is that I just become another anonymous statistic. People who commit suicide always, always do it for a reason. Nobody is born suicidal (at least, not that I'm aware of). I'm fucking tired of hearing news stories of suicides where the person's acquaintances say things like, "Oh, but he was such a nice guy. I have no idea why he would kill himself." "He always looked so happy. Everything seemed to be going for him. I just don't understand it." There are things that people never share with anyone, problems that they never share with anyone, and most importantly, pain and suffering that they never share with anyone. The reasons for this are their own; they vary from person to person. How do I know this? Because I'm one of them. People who see me, and even those who think they know me very well, would believe that there's nothing wrong with me. In fact, it wouldn't even occur to them that I was depressed and suicidal because of the happy façade I put on whenever I interact with people.

If I end up turning myself into worm food, I want there to be something, some kind of record that will survive me of what led me to take my own life, of the portion of the unimaginable pain and suffering that I can translate into words, and possibly, of the psychological mindset behind it. During the time that I am alive, if I want to survive, I have to believe that my actions still have meaning. I have to believe that writing this journal makes a difference –- that even among the innumerable blogs, journals, diaries, and other web pages on the internet, none of them have the unique combination of words that are written here. I have to believe that the world is slightly different, and hopefully, slightly better off because of the words I write here, as opposed to a world where they were not written. These words were written by an individual whose existence is recorded in human history, without whom these words would never exist, even if they are never read and cause no observable effect on the world at large.

I am getting professional help. I have been for the past eleven years, and I still want to blow my head off. If nothing else, I'm going against my better judgment and writing this in the hope that some future psychologist may possibly analyze and detect the method behind my madness, and perhaps save some other individual from suicide. Because I'm not the first person to commit suicide, and I certainly won't be the last one.

Dynasty Warriors 3 (DW3)
Well, that was exhausting. I'll try a lighter topic. Right now I'm going to down a burger and fries at McDonald's (those of you who are perceptive will notice that I am not even close to following a diabetic meal plan, nor do I care). After that I'm going to go play DW3 on my Playstation 2. I should explain.... I play this video game religiously. It is also the only game I play on my PS2, or on any other system for that matter. I've played it several hours a day, almost every day of the week since it first came out way back in 2001. It's a completely irrational and freakish fixation, something that alone warrants a visit to a mental health professional. In fact, early last year I had a two-month stay at a psychiatric ward, and since I obviously couldn't play any video games I felt like I was actually suffering withdrawal symptoms from not playing the game in such a long time. When I got out, during the first few minutes of my first game back I felt an intense, euphoric rush.

I love this game. It's even beyond love, it's kind of a way of life. It's one of the few things left I still get any pleasure out of, and it's one of the only things keeping me going and preventing me from committing seppuku. I've always loved games of this genre, ie. martial arts / kung-fu fighting. I wish I could write games like this. There are several things I find so compelling: 1) you never play the same game twice, 2) it gives you the illusion of a very large playing area, and 3) there are elements of military strategy involved, which has always been something that turns me on. :)

No change. At this point, I'm writing entries just to maintain my sanity.

I want this. Computers rule.

Apple Juice Prison

I've had to stay in three different psychiatric wards so far in my life. The last place I fondly call, "Apple Juice Prison." I stayed there during June of 2003. It was by far the worst of the three psych wards. Living in the first two was like staying at the Holiday Inn. This last place was basically a jail cell. There was a horrible stench in the place, it was poorly lighted, and the staff bossed us around and treated us like dogs. Must be some kind of new therapy for depressed people -- push them around and make them feel even worse than they already are so that they can fully appreciate what feeling shitty is really like.

After I was admitted into the ward, the first thing I was given were small containers of apple juice. They tasted okay, but they were covered in some kind of slick, colorless liquid that I could only hope was water, which made me feel pretty grossed out. So the entire time I stayed in this ward there was absolutely nothing to do. Apparently they were short-staffed due to a hiring freeze. Like I gave a shit. But there was no therapy, no groups, nothing at all except my own thoughts -- the same thoughts that were making me want to kill myself in the first place. What a wonderful situation. I may as well have been thrown into solitary confinement. The only thing that gave me any solace was the slimy apple juice. They had endless cartons of the stuff, which made me think they got them at bargain-basement prices because, for some unknown reason, someone had been desperately trying to get rid of them. But in the end, the apple juice was the only thing during all that time that was always there for me. It was my only friend.

Reverie

I miss S.C. so much. S.C. was a girl whom I was both close friends with and intensely infatuated with in college, if one can imagine such a thing. I miss her in so many ways. I miss her body, I miss her mind, I miss her thoughts, I miss her emotions, I miss her hugs, I miss her presence, and I miss knowing that she was always there for me.

I believe those were my formative years, just when I was discovering my identity. Because of my relationship with her at that exact moment in time, I feel as if her identity was intermingled with mine. That's why when our relationship finally failed, I felt more than torn apart, more than heartbroken. I felt like I lost a part of myself -- the part that was most alive.

Even now, almost eleven years after our relationship took place (I'm calling it a relationship here in the loosest sense, because in actuality we were romantically involved for only a few seconds :) ), during idle moments my thoughts invariably return to her. I see only two explanations for this: 1) as I mentioned earlier, parts of my identity are intertwined with hers, or 2) I'm just seriously fucked up. Quite possibly both are true. Eleven years? That's a verrrry long time. I haven't had any romantic relationships since then, because there is simply no other person like her. Not only did she look like a model (she looks very similar to and is just as beautiful as Liv Tyler), but she was an astute intellectual, and she was very interested in math, computer languages, computer programming, and the internet. And everyone knows of the age old stigma against women with technical interests (luckily this is slowly becoming obsolete). One couldn't ask for a more perfect match for a computer geek like me. (Well, personally I prefer blondes as gentlemen do, but you can't win 'em all.)

We used to talk on the phone together for hours, which I imagine takes place in most relationships (I can only say facts about myself with any authenticity :) ). One would naturally expect that a huge void would open up, simply because since I can no longer talk to her on the phone for several hours, that time that used to be occupied is now empty and I must come up with something else to do. But no activities (except, of course, sex, drugs, and rock & roll, which I avoided indulging in at the time) gave me as much pleasure and a sense of fullness and completeness as talking to and being with her did.

Life
Life so far has been extremely unbearable. I have failed to succeed at almost all of the plans I had created for myself. I feel very despondent and am unsure how much longer I will be able to survive.

Diabetes
Later this morning I have an appointment with my podiatrist. Since I found out about my diabetes, I've had to see countless doctors in every conceivable specialty. I feel exhausted by it, and I wish I did not have to go through all of this. Of course, this is a puerile wish; I have only myself and heredity to blame for this illness.

DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy)
Last night I attended the second meeting of my DBT group, where the idea is that I learn skills to improve my life. Unfortunately this was mostly my therapist's suggestion. I learned DBT before, and the problem I had was that I did not apply the techniques correctly to my own life, primarily because I believe I have an irreconcilable difference with the principles of DBT. DBT is a set of skills, or tools. Like any skills, they are only effective if I *use* the skills. An unused tool lying by itself does nothing until you pick it up and use it. Using these DBT skills, like using any skill, requires work, and work requires energy. I lack the energy to do *any* work, not to mention a lack of motivation.

The Ladies (potentially offensive content)
I was stimulated by a few things during that meeting, though. Three ladies in that group are very attractive, and two of them are to *die* for. The first woman, let's call her R.R., is the group leader. She appears to be in her twenties, she's a short woman, slim, has a great body, and is very pretty. The first time I had a one-on-one with her I had a serious erection and had a hard time concentrating on answering her questions. :) But when the group actually started I was completely floored by two other ladies. One of the ladies, let's call her L.S., is R.R.'s intern. She's very energetic and enthusiastic, and she also has perfect breasts. At one point I made a comment as part of a discussion in the group, and L.S. spoke after me, referring to something I said. I felt like she had just kissed me on the cheek! The other woman, let's call her T.C., is on our side -- she's one of the group members. She appears to be in her late twenties. She has blonde hair, is short, and also has perfect breasts, though slightly smaller. She is just the cutest little thing. It's so sad to see someone like her suffering so much.

What I just wrote may be considered offensive. Be that as it may, it is the unadulterated truth about how I felt and what I experienced. Above all, I value truth above almost anything else.