Our Work and Why We do it.  

rm_medworksman 48M
2 posts
7/18/2005 3:29 pm

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

Our Work and Why We do it.

This blog is about the connection between sexuality and bipolar disease. The "connection" is largely anecdotal, but that's how the health sciences start to take aim at a subject.
So, let me just jump in and see where we wind up.

The brain is the greatest mystery in all of science. Why, then, does society have such a rigid view of a human subject that is, by all accounts, the most mysterious and significant human action–sex–acted on by the most mysterious organ in the body? This is more than a feel-good exercise. But I don't really know. That's where I need your help.

A great professor of mine died recently while he was in the throes of Alzheimer's. He had won the American Book Award before he died, but none of us could know what he knew because of the Alzheimer's disease.

I'd rather not die in the dark. We use this site to hang each other upside down and fuck ourselves senseless. Great fun, but can we just spend a moment to ask ourselves WHY? And if you're bipolar, you know full well the terrible fixation which society stamps on our pleasure.

Let's set the stage. Most of us on this site are hypersexual. That's why we're here. We crave sex; it defines us. Conversely, the lack of sex can set us adrift and can trouble us deeply. So, let's do some heavy petting. I am not the only bipolar on this site. My guess is that there are more of us here than there would be in a "controlled" group. (That's the extent of the scientific lingo we'll use.)

I'm betting that the people on this site are some of the healthiest in our society. In following, I hope you will share through this blog some of the reasons you have come to this point in your lives so that we can grapple with the real deal between hypersexuality, mania, and mental phenomenon and disease. In between, we can fuck ourselves senseless.

The following story is a bit serious for me–and no doubt for most of you–but it is typical, and moreover, true. It is not unusual for a bipolar person to find themselves in handcuffs for little or no reason–certainly not the reason we would prefer. But this is how it happens.

THE COPS

My old Mercedes wagon was stolen last week on 95th Street just off of CPW. The cops spun me around the neighborhood to make sure the car wasn't abandoned close by. I sat in the back behind the officers, who were going through their duties by rote. What irony, I thought as I rode in the cage of the back seat–that for the first time in my life, I found myself in a squad car without wearing handcuffs. As you can guess, I didn't share my chequered history with the officers. "What's a nice guy like you in a sports coat and Ferragamo shoes doin gettin locked-up?" I could hear them ask me with the wincing incredulity born of the five boroughs. "Well officers," I would reply, "welcome to my world of bipolarity."

And so we begin.

The car was gone for good, of course, but I relished my little ride as a free man with New York's finest. It was almost worth losing the Mercedes. I walked home from the precinct house on 100th street. I turned a corner and walked past the projects. Men and women of all makes and models hung from the pizza box cutout windows, trying to get a trace of a breeze in the hot, humid, summer night. Kids horsed around in front of the buildings. Hey, I thought to myself. Did anyone see me in the back of the squad car just now? I nodded at the fellas knowingly. Yea, I thought, you guys know the score. They couldn't pin that shit on me, man. I walking past the boys and girls a free man. I rubbed my wrists where the handcuffs would have bitten into me and I made sure they saw it and gave them one last nod.

When I unlocked the door to my apartment high above the park, I left the lights off and sat looking out at the inky waves of green and black that cut through swaths of the park until it touched the majestic battlements of the lighted East Side. The room was bathed in moon and street light.
I heard a melody in my head and replayed the looks of the boys who I had connected with–ever so briefly–on a level I know not, but felt nevertheless. And it was a long time before I realized that I was crying.

At the turn of the last century, the New York City Police were known by the slang term of "coppers," because their uniforms were fashioned with copper buttons. Coppers morphed to cops, cops were dubbed somewhere along the way to The Man, to fuzz, then pig, and so on and so forth. I told myself this litany of cops and buttons over and over again, as if I were a demented Professor of Useless Criminology. But, really, I just wanted to stop crying and get my body back from wherever it went–to feel my hard cock in my two hands–and to rub my warm self over my torso, knowing well that the miracle of peace and sleep was upon me. My last thought was of how nice the cops were. "Why haven't I ever fucked a cop," I mumbled, falling off the last word. And then I was gone.


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