"I can't really have whiskey anymore."

"Sure you can."

Of course the guy who was feeding me the whiskey would say that, with a smirk, even if he wasn't the one I was kissing later in the night.

I'm doing everything all wrong (but at least I'm doing it my way).

Could I have been anymore drunk, trashy, and desperate? I don't really know. I can't remember it all. And the answer is probably yes. I like to get fucked up. There was a time when I could get that smashed and still remember it the next day. Oh well. Memory loss comes with age, and I'm certainly too old for the way I've been acting.

But don't get me wrong. I'm not whining or complaining. I'm not sitting here feeling guilty and reminding myself I said enough was enough awhile back. No. Some of it is embarrassing, but whatever. It was so much fun and how can someone feel bad about fun?

The only problem is, I have to be careful. He can't be my donkey, and that's all I can have right now. I can't put myself in a situation that I know will end with me causing pain. It has to be someone I don't really mind hurting, or better yet, someone who doesn't care enough to get hurt. Not a sweet boy.

I do know who can be my donkey, if he actually does something beyond feeding me booze.

Last year I confessed something I think is obvious: I've always wanted a penis.