Does sex addiction exist? I dunno. We could argue the toss (pun intended), but the dude I ran into yesterday in London’s Soho seemed about as stuck on it (sex) as . . . as I was about five years ago.
Matty – we’ll call him by that completely inappropriate, made-up name – was jonesing when I met him, clucking, sweating, his beady eyes all over the place, like he was getting an electric shock every time a cute (or even merely passable) girl walked by.
–You see Troy, my head’s been all over the place the last few weeks. We’re alike, you and me. I can tell. And for guys like us, it’s not about getting sex. That’s not the problem. What the problem is is what to do next.
–I feel you man, I said.
I know Matty from the 12-step recovery group that we both go to so we don’t kill ourselves drinking alcohol. I’ve known him for a year or so. For shits and giggles I’ve also attended an overeaters group with him a few times, too. Not that either of us are overweight. But there’s no doubt that Ive ‘used’ sugar in a way that’s not healthy. And in London members of 12-step groups like to check other groups out from time-to-time, to see what’s on the menu.
But I digress.
Matty is not in a good way.
–I spent yesterday afternoon with a brass in a hotel in Canary Wharf, he said.
His eyes are dull, like someone stuck opaque contact lenses over them. He’s here – clucking, sweating and all of that – and not here at the same time.
–I feel you man.
Well? I’m trying to be helpful.
–When I gave up Instagram, I put all that time and effort I was putting into making stories into the dating apps, he continues.
He runs a hand through his greasy American Crew slick back, and nervously fingers the silk handkerchief in the top pocket of his dogtooth Aquascutum jacket.
–I’m on Tinder, Hinge, Bumble – the lot.
–I’ve been there, man, I said
–The other night I banged a shemale brass, just for the fuck of it.
I say nothing.
I haven’t been there.
–It was disgusting. But I watch a lot of porn. And normal sex . . . it just doesn’t turn me on like it used to.
–I see.
I think for a moment.
–But doing prostitutes and dating a lot are not necessarily bad in themselves.
–Not if you can handle it. I’m spending a grand a week on birds, though.
–Oh. Not good.
–What am I going to do? Do you think I’ll get through this? You know, without picking up a drink?
–Sure. I’ve done all kinds of mad shit sober. It’s not what they’d call ‘healthy behaviour’ in a meeting, but I haven’t drunk over it.
–OK.
–How about this. Why don’t you delete the dating apps for a bit? Take some time out for yourself.
–You’re right, Troy. I need to take some time out for myself.
He pulled out his iPhone, opened up a folder, and torpedoed each of the dating apps within, one-by-one, somewhat theatrically.
–There you go, Troy. I feel better already. You know I think it was fate I bumped into you tonight. You’re a real friend. And it’s thanks to you I’ve turned a corner tonight.
–Good.
We finished up and paid the bill. Outside, Matty stops and checks out a passing girl.
–I just thought of a great opening line. How about if I go up to a girl and say ‘hey, I know we’re meant to do this online, what with Tinder and all of that. But I just wanted to say, if we were on Tinder, and you came up, I’d definitely swipe right’?
–That’s a good one.
–Cheers bro. Come here.
He embraced me, and then went off to find his Jag, which was parked someplace down the road.
I ambled over to Rupert Street to look at the Eastern European girls who hang around the clip joints (I never do anything, but I have this weird low-life fetish to look). A crackhead, visibly high, asks me for money, so I give him a quid. Then I spot a one-legged beggar on crutches coming down the street towards me. The same old characters who’ve been round the West End ever since I’ve lived here.
Fuck knows what’s going on in London right now but Soho looks like a zombie movie these days.
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