Louis Armstrong Cured my Sex Addiction

I was 15 years old when my mother first asked about phone sex services appearing on her bill. Upon hearing of these charges I wept for many hours and as my mother held me close I confessed that I had witnessed our family handyman, a man called Valdez, saying strange things into our garage telephone while rubbing his chambray trousers. Valdez was immediately dismissed, which came as a great relief. Valdez was on to me. A few weeks earlier, homesick from school with a false flu, I had been awoken by one of Valdez’s noisy gardening tools. At first I was angry with my mother for not informing Valdez of my condition and I was about to phone her office but I needed a list of obscure films picked up from the local video store. So, I set-out to locate Valdez. I needed those videos. In those days I had a strong interest in porn that masked itself as art, as it was un-rated and accessible.

I found Valdez deep in the corner of our yard. He shut down his machine and watched me approach slowly and shoelessly. I cut to the chase with Valdez: “Give this envelope to the video store attendant.” Then I slipped him the unsealed envelope that contained my list. Valdez returned an hour later. I managed to catch him as he was pulling up in his proud old truck. He told me they didn’t have my titles, and I knew he wasn’t lying because I’d just phoned the video store and had my titles special-ordered. Of course, Valdez (a skilled country-western dancer) was not to blame for the limited, in-store selection at our local video store. But when I asked him to return my envelope he checked his pearly buttoned shirt pockets and said “now where did I put that,” before feigning surprise that it wasn’t there. “Shucks, I must have left it at the video store,” he said, before moving in the direction of the garage.

The titles were not overtly pornographic but I couldn’t risk Valdez mentioning these titles to my mother, or covertly slipping her my list. This is why I’d given Valdez such clear instructions. Additionally, I’d folded the list twice before placing it in the envelope, so he wouldn’t read it, but as I questioned him about what exactly the clerk had said, he began to avoid my gaze. Which meant he must have glanced at or even read my list. Those titles must have set off all sorts of alarm bells for Valdez – sexual alarm bell; but I managed to play it cool, like it didn’t matter to me if my mother caught wind of my interest, because she was a slut anyway.

Valdez knew I was about to lose it. “It’s cool,” I said. After that, I got right into my mother’s liquor cabinet then on to the phone-sex lines for some live relief.

Post-Valdez, the phone sex billings continued. When my mother mentioned the charges on the phone bill I began screaming. After which, I was asked to explain my reaction. I told her Valdez had raped me for attempting to assist with yard work.
I was made to attend therapy twice a week and Valdez was reinstated. He refused to enter our home. I watched him drink from the garden hose and urinate beneath our expanded deck as I sipped hot brandy.

Despite Valdez’s return, things were, at least for me, still going well. I still had my nightly phone sex sessions. Those calls induced a well-oiled purpose that bled into my scholastic, social and tennis endeavors. My ability to win on those phone sex lines triggered a ruthless swagger which briefly kept the drinking under control. Thanks to phone sex, I was briefly on track, headed to Hanover. Those sex lines kept me off the streets. If only I could have stayed on those phone sex lines until I found a girlfriend, I would have ended up at Hanover, but one night I dialed, receiver in one hand, brandy snifter cooling in the other, oils at the ready. It had been a good day and my conscience was clear, as I was no longer skipping activities or drinking before school. But when I dialed, I received a computer-generated message. I was told that my access to 1-900 lines had been blocked at the account holder’s request. So, I was left with no choice. I immediately began arranging live-action sex encounters via a local telephone date line.

I was optimistic about my transition from the phone sex world straight into live action. I was winning on all fronts and needed to keep it going. I’d always enjoyed the back page section of our local arts and culture weekly. Along with phone sex ads, the back page section featured listings for fake high society matchmakers, rural table shower clubs and, most importantly, my local date lines. These lines were advertised as casual hangouts, AKA: easy-going place to meet local singles for discreet friendship, no-strings fun or traditional dating. Somebody was always online just looking to hang or meet up for a drink, no big deal, but things got a little hot around 10. The energy shifted and we all got honest about what we urgently needed. The print dateline ads promoted a free 30-minute trial where one could give it a try, why not, let’s see what happens. I was looking for something local and immediate but I knew I had to take it easy with the sex talk as this wasn’t a phone sex line. I cast a wide net in my audio greeting as I was anxious to arrange a live sex encounter, off-line, asap. I was planning on stealing one of my mother’s cars in the middle of the night: she was a deep sleeper. I’d meet up anywhere reasonable.

The first time I called the dateline I had some trouble holding the phone: sweat was pouring down my palms. The brandy did little to calm my nerves and my teeth were chattering like a cat’s, which made speech difficult. I reminded myself that this was just a casual dateline and to take it easy. The automated system asked if I was a man or a woman and if I was looking for a man or a woman. I nearly disguised myself as a woman just to get the ball rolling, but thought better of it. I knew I could be murdered for pretending to be a woman and I didn’t want to die a virgin. Next the automated date line asked me to record an audio greeting as a way of introducing myself to local women currently online and looking to connect live. Tremors overtook my hands. I was unable to hold the phone but I had my own line and my rooms were in a remote wing of my mother’s local stone Tudor, so I put the phone on speaker, undressed and laid flat upon a chevron cotton blanket.

I attempted to pose as a conventional non-threatening type in my audio greeting by employing the fun-loving language of the dateline advertisement. “Hello! I’m dialing from the outer suburbs and I’d sure like to meet the right lady. Let’s start with a quite evening in the Crossroads District. Coffee anywhere would also work. If sex is your thing all body types are welcome. You should know that I’m an oilman by trade but it’s a family business, so I can always get away at a moment’s notice. As for my body, I have a runner’s build and enjoy hard liquor in moderation. I can meet anywhere between the hours of midnight and 6 AM..”

After recording my greeting I was given the opportunity to listen to the greetings of women currently live and looking to meet. I found this part, the listening, painfully boring as many of these women found it necessary to recite interests and hobbies. I guess, this was my introduction to the time-wasting ritual known as courtship. The joys of courtship are not for everyone, despite what they tell you.

The women were mostly on the homely side. They sounded like they worked in grocery stores or Catholic School Cafeterias. I’d recently viewed a Dutch film set in the countryside so I was on the lookout for a bored dairy farmer’s wife, but I’d settle for anything. Interests and hobbies included: hunting, boating, bow-hunting, trapping, camping. Some even let slip the names of incarcerated lovers, enlisted husbands and unfaithful sweethearts. Others expressed a broad appreciation for the animal kingdom, generally speaking, then provided disappointing yet arousing physical measurements. Some mentioned pets and children. These were the whites, but there were also black women who were clearly not country-dwellers. They did not lie about having hobbies, which I appreciated. Some expressed an interest in black men exclusively, while others expressed a strong hatred of black men, as they had been wronged in some way but were still pressing on.

One gave her exact location and dared any man to travel there. Another paid tribute to a dead man, cursed all men, threatened her sister’s life, then provided her address. One confessed that she had, for a time, been addicted to narcotics, but was now religious and in need of a ride to church. One woman, a legitimately sad case, was searching for her missing brother: “He was always on the line so I figured someone on here has to know something,” she pleaded between deep sobs.

I was barraged with accusatory messages from women both hostile and to some degree interested, but I was frequently accused of being too young to use the telephone date system. One woman even accused me of what she called “playing around on the line” while she was “in no mood for games.” I also encountered men who began their profiles with long anti-homosexual disclaimers. One even claimed to be “hunting for homos” to assist with the installation of automotive parts. Another man needed assistance with a wife who “just couldn’t get enough” and had a bad case of the “you know whats.” That situation appealed to me, but I feared a trap. All callers doubted my age of 46. I proposed casual meetings with everyone.

The black women usually ignored me, but I did receive a message from a soft-spoken self-described light skinned African-American woman, 18 years of age with a slender build. After exchanging messages the telephone system gave us the option to move into a private room where, instead of exchanging audio messages, we could chat live. We both agreed to this, so the audio messaging phase ended and an actual telephone conversation begin. We arranged a date. She wanted to meet that very night, but she sounded slow, perhaps even disabled, which did not appeal to me, but she mentioned being alone and a father at work. This home alone scenario was one I’d encountered in soft porn.

At midnight, I consumed three moderate glasses of brandy and raced my mother’s German convertible into the urban core of the Midwestern city of my birth. I was in route to meet a mentally disabled African American woman. I’d never felt better. This was the beginning of my decline. The limited capacities of this glorious machine met and exceeded the nervous expectations of each moment. I lowered the cloth top. The possibility of robbery and violence excited me. My welcoming of all manner of situation gave the professional criminals I passed pause. I rang the bell of the numbered apartment house, and after a long moment a blind teenager holding a long pole stood before me. She was wearing a cheap cotton dress. Blind and well-built she showed me in.

We didn’t have anything to talk about so I asked about her father. She confirmed that he was at work and would not return for many hours. Her room was neat and her closet door was fully mirrored. The kissing wasn’t just a means to an end. I knew how to get into the kissing before removing her clothing. She placed her hands on my penis. She was wise like that. She was menstruating heavily. I understood the blood and that some men would not have approved. I washed myself in a little sink and told her I would call. To recap, she never removed her dress. She hoisted it and bent over. We appeared as one before the closet mirror. Initially the mirror excited me but once we began I spotted her blind face: she appeared to be oblivious to me.

As I already mentioned, these datelines offered one free trial per line. After that you have to pay for access with a credit card and I’d used up my free trial to find the blind girl. I knew finding a fresh line in order to access the dating service would be the easy part. Once I came into possession of a line that could give me a free trial, I’d need 30 minutes of uninterrupted privacy.

I was avoiding my grandparents. Although I still enjoyed my grandmother’s down-home southern cooking, her biscuits and expertly prepared meats were always paired with Bible lessons that haunted my dreams and inhibited my enjoyment of life. My grandmother was surprised to hear from me. I was trying to forget that I had been attracted to her as a child. She said she missed me, but I knew what she really meant. She was concerned for my soul and, as I expected, invited me for dinner that very evening.

My mother was suspicious of my renewed interest in my grandparents. She had Valdez drop me at their custom mini-mansion hours before dinner. An ancient black maid called Marilyn, who’d cared for my grandmother since she was a child, greeted me at the door and walked me to the sun room where my grandmother, brightly dressed as always, was napping on her back. She rose rapidly and approached. She was full of the spirit. Her eyes filled with tears as she held my face in her hands.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

She knew what my absence meant. She answered her own question: “You’ve been in the world.”

I held back tears. A baptism was in order.

My grandmother regularly employed preachers who’d fallen on hard times or were between congregations on account of spiritual trials. These churchless preachers never considered swimwear. I watched this bald middle-aged man named Jacob (he’d taken three buses to get to my grandmother’s home) walk fully clothed in Dockers, combat boots, and a short sleeve white oxford into the pool. He dismissed both steps and ladder. He was indifferent to depth. I knew this man might be capable of redirecting my course, but I also knew that even if the lord helped me out with my sex addiction I’d still have to do my part. The lord wouldn’t do it all for me.

My grandmother, in a white terry cloth jumper, watched as this preacher of rural origins baptized me. He whispered something about grace as he gently put me under those warm waters. He spoke of the devil’s presence, the secret battle and the war of men. He declined my grandmother’s dinner invitation. He didn’t need a towel. Dripping wet, head bowed in reverence, he took his fee and left by way of the back gate. It was wise of him to decline the dinner offer. My grandfather referred to these roaming preachers as “freeloaders.” He nearly killed one for entering his walk-in freezer. According to my grandfather, “he was eyeing my ice creams.” When confronted by my grandfather, the preacher claimed to be admiring the Lord’s gifts.

The dateline was still on my mind. This baptism was not a cure-all. It came with a responsibility on the part of the receiver. I lacked self-control but I knew I was a genius capable of international fame, and once famous I’d fill my days with high-risk sexual scenarios. So, maybe I didn’t truly want God to eliminate my obsessions, but I knew one day I might end up on trial and I wanted my grandmother to witness my attempt to be decent. She could testify on my behalf and be the perfect character witness.

After the baptism, I told my grandmother I wasn’t feeling well and would need to rest before dinner. I went to my room: a room that had once belonged to the most pathetic individual I have ever known: the individual I needed to avoid becoming at any cost, and that I would become as I was too fearful to commit suicide. A man who, according to my mother, was religiously dissociative.

This man was my Uncle Jim. As a college student Jim had spent his days praying and singing to the Lord in his dorm room. He’d eventually enter a spiritual frenzy and wander the campus, attempting to convert groovy dudes and their girlfriends, which is why he kept flunking out and eventually got into hard drugs.

His room had been redecorated to please me. The bedspread had an English Fox Hunting theme: horsemen, brass horns summoning the thrill of the hunt. The pattern was selected with me in mind. It was a message: “You are a genius in the tradition of Dickens and—the fool—C.S. Lewis. We understand your pain. You will be celebrated in ways that we will not understand.” This was the expectation, so naturally, the reality of what I’d become would be painful for everyone.

I dialed the dateline number that I’d written on a piece of paper and kept in my pocket. The line was fresh, the free trial unclaimed. I was worried my uncle Jim might have used the free trial, but he had not. I was granted 30 minutes of dateline use. My white cotton bulldog swim trunks were soaking wet, so I locked the door and removed them. I was looking to arrange something for the evening. I recorded a conservative profile, but this time I didn’t feel the need to disguise my voice. I’d done some fucking; I was a big-shot; I’d made the blind girl come twice and could have done it again had I not felt sick. The baptism had brought in a soft light, a sunny disposition. I was a small part of something larger. I was using the Lord’s peace for wickedness, but I was only flesh, and the flesh will have its way.

“This is Johnny calling from the outer suburbs. I’m a single white male, 26, 6 feet tall, 170 lbs and strongly built as I work out frequently. I enjoy swimming, tennis, football and jazz.” I considered specifying that by jazz I was referring not to smooth but bop, hard bop, some early fusion, Dixieland, some minimal big band forms and West Coast cool, but not smooth.

I hoped I might encounter the blind girl, but she was nowhere to be found. I chatted with a large proud white mother from a backcountry region, which she identified according to its proximity to a Highway 9 off-ramp. I wanted to move on and find someone who was not so large, but my free trial had only five minutes left on it so I got this large country person’s phone number and told her that she sounded very nice and confessed that I was, in fact, very excited to get to know her. “I have to have dinner with my grandparents now, but I’ll call you in exactly two hours,” I stated.

My grandmother was nearly done cooking dinner and told me that my grandfather was in his study watching the news. My grandfather was eating saltine crackers that he covered in mayonnaise. He had no beverage, as mayonnaise provided him with ample hydration. My grandfather is a very handsome, dry-faced man with a large belly. He is the oldest son of a rich rancher, who died suddenly when he was 18, leaving him a large inheritance that he had expanded upon, then lost, then rebuilt from nothing, then lost again, then somehow became richer than ever. He was wearing khaki pants and a white button-down shirt; his aviator style eyeglasses were eighteen carat gold. That crocodile briefcase was in the corner. He greeted me warmly.

“Has your mother finished dinner yet?”

He always referred to his wife as my mother. He was annoyed by how long it took her to prepare dinner, and once seated, after praying, he always told her that he wanted his dinner when he walked in the door at five and it was nearly 5:10. He then explained that she lacked planning, and that with some simple planning ahead this could be accomplished. He offered me similar advice.

“Now you’re still young, but that’s no excuse. It’s never too early to start planning. Just simple planning really, and if one plan doesn’t work out, you can always make another, but you must always have a plan. The Lord loves planning.”

As I listened I promised myself that moving forward I would plan everything because I knew if I didn’t I was doomed to a life of servitude, serving the planners of the world, like my grandfather, as opposed to being served by people like my grandmother.
After dessert, my grandfather told me that needed to speak with me about my plans, but, as usual, he didn’t follow up with me. He then asked my grandmother about dessert. My grandfather required a broad range of dessert options which he liked to discuss as he ate his dinner. By discuss I mean quiz my grandmother and showcase his knowledge. He always had his ice creams, which he kept in the walk-in freezer, but to my grandfather, ice cream was just garnish: desserts being pies and cakes but not cookies. Cookies are not desserts.

“Now what’s for dessert?” he asked, as if a single dessert option would ever be sufficient.

“Well, I have pecan, lemon meringue, chocolate chess, and a short cake”

“You got enough strawberries for that short cake?”

She needed to be reminded of some past failure. My grandmother was careful to remain modest.

“I hope I do.”

“I hope you do too.”

This interaction regarding strawberries was pleasing to my grandfather, and my grandmother seemed pleased as well. Dessert origins was the next order of business. My grandfather knew the origins, but inquired for his own reasons.

“Where’s that pecan pie from?”

“Marilyn brought the pecan this afternoon”

Marilyn never served my grandfather dinner or assisted my grandmother in the preparing of meals, but she did bring desserts. She made them in the basement. Marilyn did laundry, vacuumed and cleaned the bathrooms. Occasionally my grandmother suggested to my grandfather that Marilyn stay and help with dinner, or if my grandmother was away she would suggest that Marilyn make his dinner. But my grandfather had proudly never taken her up on this, and whenever my grandmother was absent, he prepared his own dinner, which was a subject he enjoyed discussing every night.

“Your mother went with a bunch of women to the Holy Land last month. Seven days she was gone. Pretty long trip really. I made my own dinners. Cooking is simple. Bacon and scrambled eggs is all a man needs. Maybe a little toast. I put mine in the broiler. Toast comes out better that way. I don’t need a toaster (he said this like a bigot). I can make my own dinner.”

These comments annoyed my grandmother, so she cleared her throat repeatedly as my grandfather spoke.

“You got anything chocolate?” he asked her.

He always asked this even though she’d just told him. Again, it was somehow implied that she had failed him.

“I have chocolate pie.” She knew not to expand on the variety or reveal its origins; this was his privilege.

“What sort of chocolate pie?”

“It’s a Chocolate Chess.”

“Where’s it from?”

“It’s from Tippins.”

“When did you buy it?”

“Two days ago.”

“Do we have any decaf?”

“Yes, James.”

“What sort of ice creams do we have?”

“We have chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, pecan and peppermint.”

“That chocolate ice cream is tough to beat!” He looked at me and winked after saying this. as if it was obvious that we felt the same way. He then deferred to me.

“What do you think Jasper? Chocolate Pie and vanilla ice cream alright for you?”

“That sounds wonderful.” I responded.

“And bring out the meringue. Is that decaf ready? You care for coffee, son?”

“No, thank you.”

“No, coffee?”

“No thanks.”

My grandmother cleared the table, brought dessert plates, the ice cream in bowls, and both the pies. My grandfather liked the entire pie brought to him so that he could serve himself, and pick his slices. Dessert now served, my grandfather would be discussing furniture.

“This table’s made of Cypress. Got it in Spain.”

“Oh.”

“Spain’s a Catholic Nation, very lazy people, but great table-makers. How’s that pie?”

“Great, thanks.”

“Ice cream alright?”

“It’s very good, thank you.”

“You want a root beer float, honey?” My grandmother asked.

“No, thanks.”

“I’ve got some root beer, honey,” my grandmother continued.

“Root beer float is good,” my grandfather chimed in cordially.

It may seem strange that she would offer me additional dessert as I was already eating dessert, but this was a way for her to make conversation that my grandfather enjoyed.

“She’ll make you a root beer float right now.”

He winked at her after he said this. This root beer talk was arousing to them both. I’d seen my grandfather naked. The image of his penis is still accessible. It was short but thick over low-hanging balls. He was a ruthless fucker of my grandmother, who had found the Lord late in life.

As I ate my pie, I imagined that they would both be dead soon and that this was the last time I’d ever see them. This made me happy about my decision to come over. I had gotten a country lady’s number on the local telephone dateline. I had no idea how that would turn out. I could be murdered or jailed or thrown in some hole, or maybe I’d just do a little fucking. All these outcomes raced through my mind and filled me with a zippy sensation. I’ll take anything zippy. If my grandparents turned up dead, I could say I was just over enjoying pie. People would respect that and maybe begin to trust me again. They seemed happy that I’d stopped in for a visit.

All was quiet within my mother’s stone Tudor. I consumed five small glasses of brandy and phoned the large countrywoman. She told me I sounded cute and encouraged me to visit.

Not long after midnight I took to the vacant highways that lead to the rural regions surrounding the outer suburbs. I was careful to dress well. I was shoeless in white cotton swim trunks below a mango polo. My mother’s German convertible and my meticulous appearance would distract this large countrywoman from any moral reservations she might have about mixing with children.

Once I exited the vacant highway, I found myself driving through a heavily wooded section of primitive road. I’d written her driving instructions on a piece of my grandmother’s thick magnolia yellow stationary that I’d taken for this exact purpose. After multiple lefts and rights, contingent on various landmarks, wooden signs and an abandoned gas station, I finally entered a community of trailers and found myself knocking on the door of a home that looked as if it had been built from found materials. Before I walked to the door, as I made my way toward the shack, I whispered to myself to return home, get to bed, and live a decent life. I told myself every few seconds, as I walked toward the shack, that I was walking into a situation where I would surely be raped and murdered or arrested and then raped or just left for dead in a hole. I was also aware that every second was another chance to turn my life around and be decent.

The woman that stood before me weighed no less than 300 pounds and was very short. She wore a man’s sleeveless undershirt that showcased her generous chest and very small white cotton shorts. Her children were out or had been removed, but evidence of children filled the shack.

I didn’t know where to start or proceed. She was watching television and I feigned excitement over the program she had selected. I kept looking out of the window, expecting a man with a rifle to emerge from a truck at any moment. I needed to move fast and get into her body on the sofa.

She inquired about alcohol and I felt heavy regret for not bringing my brandy. I made a mental note to myself to always bring alcohol. She mentioned the quality of my vehicle, a Mercedes Benz 560 SL, and asked if I was in the movie business. I explained that I was and suggested she consider a career in show business as she was certainly built for it.

I could not look at her face. I found myself pawing at her large chest, which she allowed but seemed indifferent to. She patted my head and continued to watch television. I attacked her bust, hoping to forget myself, and as I sucked at her breasts I noticed a child’s training toilet in the corner, filled with waste. It was then that I realized the entire place smelled of shit and cheap food.

Maybe that stench was the Lord’s presence. All I really know is that I got the hell out of there and when I got home I burned the local Arts and Culture weekly in my bathtub.

I got deep into Jazz after that. I read that Louis Armstrong was a daily marijuana smoker so I started smoking quite a bit myself, which seemed to soothe the sexual drive brought on by the brandy.

One night my mother invited me to join her on a shopping excursion, which I declined. Instead I smoked three bowls from a metal pipe called a Zeppelin and put on a Louis Armstrong record which began with the song It’s a Wonderful World, a song I’d been avoiding. But I was so nicely stoned, I didn’t even care, and as I listened I thought about Valdez and the blind girl and the countrywoman and the phone sex, and it all seemed like such a bad idea, not some huge deal with hellish consequences, just not the best way to spend my time. I couldn’t believe I’d been involved in all that and for a moment I found it all sort of funny.

I took a break from the sex stuff after that. I mostly just smoked lots of pot and listened to jazz. A few years later I returned to the sex but it was less exciting.