New

To quote LL Cool J, I need love. Desperately and dramatically, like a 2year old child that’s never felt the warmth of human contact. If it doesn’t happen soon, the damage could be irreversible.

What I’m finding most interesting is that the love I have been able to get my hands on of late has all been digital. Everything from nudie pics from girls in Seattle to the kindness of a fellow Los Angeleno, my cable connection has allowed me to at least feel what Daft Punk once called “Digital Love.”

I’d compare it to “Tru Blood,” the synthetic blood-replacement drink for vampires on HBO show “True Blood.” Digital love can sustain me sure, but what fun is that. I need skin, hair and teeth. Soft shoulders for tender kisses. A warm, sloping belly to hold from behind as we sleep, crunched together like kittens.

Drugs heighten the experience. Blinding ski runs of blow, the dense jungles of herbal goodness. But without that quickening of breath or muffled cry smothered by a pillow, it all rings hollow.

I vividly remember the last time I held a woman down by throat. We weren’t even fucking at the time. It was a wild, half-naked romp that found the two of us pushing each other further and further. At first it was subtle, but soon I had her pinned to my bed by the neck, my face inches from hers, hot breath and a half-laugh, half-whimper.

“You like that. I know you like it. I know because you’re nasty just like me.”

She smiled in agreement, before striking me across the face so hard it was numb for minutes before the hot pain spread across my right cheek. The same hot pain that rocketed right to my penis, already steel-solid from the initial blow. I’m stiffening at the mere thought of it.