Notes of a Degenerate Dreamer: Lessons of a Failed Pervert

By Sebastian Vice

Some see the face of God in a child’s smile, others in the scent of roses, and others in the melodic speech of birds. For me, the face of God is between a woman’s legs. (The juices on my tongue the taste of divinity.) What could be more sublime, or divine, than a welcoming cunt? If spasmic vaginal muscles aren’t the hand of God, then what is?

The human body, far from being scorned or shamed, is to be worshipped. The steam off vaginas, its pheromones slamming my brain like pure Columbian cocaine, are enough to explode my dopamine circuits. Like any drug, after all these years, one sees diminishing returns, but like any good addict, I’ll be damned if I stop chasing the dragon. (I’m dead inside, but not too numb to cum. Such is the way of a lifelong degenerate, who’s lived too fast, and too hard, for too long.)

The history of intellectual thought—especially philosophical and theological—is fraught with a perverse notion that carnal pleasures are to be moderated, or suppressed. In J.S. Mill’s 1863 Utilitarianism, he proclaims:

It is indisputable that the being whose capacities of enjoyment are low, has the greatest chance of having them fully satisfied; and a highly endowed being will always feel that any happiness which he can look for, as the world is constituted, is imperfect. But he can learn to bear its imperfections, if they are at all bearable; and they will not make him envy the being who is indeed unconscious of the imperfections, but only because he feels not at all the good which those imperfections qualify. It is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied. And if the fool, or the pig, is of a different opinion, it is only because they only know their own side of the question.

It's never made sense to me to distinguish lower (think bodily) and higher order (think intellectual) pleasures, as if the latter is superior to the former. As someone with a developed cognitive capacity, I’d chose the carnal over the intellectual any day. The pursuit of truth, a life of the mind, leads only to an abandoned road. One of alienation and discontentment. I’ll take being a satisfied pig over being a miserable prick (Socrates) any day. Far be it from me to speak on Socrates’ behalf, but if we’re honest, I wager he’d have picked being a satisfied pig. Instead, he went out like a pussy drinking Hemlock.

One might say: the life of carnal pleasures leads to an empty road too. Correct. All paths lead to nothing. This is existential nihilism 101. Pick your poison. As for me? The pervert’s journey to the dead end has left me with more interesting stories, and was more fun, than debating the merits of higher-order set theory, or other intellectual douchebaggery.

Thankfully, we have the unapologetic Epicurean Hedonist Marquis De Sade to counter balance people like J.S. Mill. Degenerates and perverts might find solace from: Philosophy In The Bedroom, Justine, and 120 Days of Sodom. We get lines like:

“Sex is as important as eating or drinking and we ought to allow the one appetite to be satisfied with as little restraint or false modesty as the other.”

And

“Sex without pain is like food without taste.”

Perhaps you’re like me, or De Sade, and want to give into your reptilian desires. If so, the following is for you. To become a full-time pervert, here are a few lessons from a failed one. It’s possible to live too fast and too hard in too short a time (this applies even to the life of the mind—Mill neglected to mention this). If you fall into that trap, you’ll end up like me, penning tales like these instead of paging though whatever pervert handbook you find.

You’ll be tempted to fall in love when you first start. It’s hard not to, especially with tits in your face and ass cheeks riding your nuts. But you’re just getting started, you haven’t navigated sexual geography enough. Be a tourist, but not the typical asshole who plays it safe. You’ll have sad orgasms. And you’ll get hurt, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. It’s all part of the journey. Accept it. Cherish it. Pleasure and pain are twins (cue De Sade, and cue Taoism for that matter).

Learn sexual negotiation. You may be deluded into thinking you don’t have fetishes. You do. You’ll discover them after completing the missionary phase of sexual congress. People might try to kink shame you, and it might hit you like an unwanted pregnancy (take steps against that too—there are already too many assholes on this shithole planet). Eventually, you’ll learn to accept what and who you are. It’s likely your partner will have a laundry list of fetishes. Satisfy theirs, and they’ll satisfy yours (unless they’re a selfish asshole—it happens).

Before I developed a six times distilled list of fetishes, I was obsessed with blowjobs. My partner was into golden showers. Nothing against watersports, but they don’t turn me on. Regardless, the mere talk of pissing on my head made her wet. The best blowjobs I got were after she was horny as fuck from pissing on my head. (This should go without saying, but it’s worth mentioning: don’t be a selfish prick. Satisfy her, and she’ll do things to make your prostate explode.)

Learn dopamine regulation. This is where I fucked up. After dopamine slams your brain like three rails of cocaine, prepare for withdrawal. Your first instinct might be to seek out more. This happened with the golden shower gal. Sex, like any drug, has diminishing returns. As trite as the saying is: nothing is as good as your first. Don’t expect it to be.

You can counter dopamine overload with planned dopamine detoxes. If I was smarter, instead of getting golden shower laced blowjobs each night, I’d have waited a week. And this isn’t about making sex special or sacred. It’s about recapturing the first moment. Or getting close. Don’t believe me? If you smoke or drink coffee, quit for three days. Then drink a cup or smoke a cigarette.

The Holy Spirit will course through your veins.

Never underestimate intimacy. Love and intimacy are distinct. And intimacy and sensuality are distinct. I’ll assume you’re smart enough to know sensuality is a key to seduction. But don’t be a rusted robot before sex, or a moist one after. Sex, the act itself, is often less important, less delicious, than the moments before and after. Perhaps you can never really know someone, but you can share certain moments, naked, after the spasms of ecstasy, where you connect on a deeper level. Try to get over your anxiety of being vulnerable. Vulnerability is the out-of-tune-song of Buddhist Devas.

There’s no feeling quite as divine as lying on sweaty tits, the stress melts away, and for the briefest of moments, you might find what the Greeks call ataraxia (unperturbedness of the soul). It’s fleeting, and if we’ve learned anything from the eastern traditions, it’s to not cling to it. Bask in the sublimity of the present moment. Let it wash over your being like cool breeze on a hot day.

Never give up on love. (I said I’m dead inside, but I’m not too numb to cum.)  And in time you might die inside too, and you might still maintain an erection. But love is real. Love is fragile like a butterfly’s wings. Real, drilled-to-the-marrow-love, is real. You know it when you have it, and like Zen Satori, it can’t be explained. Just embraced.

Never give up on the possibility of genuine love. It may never knock at your door, and you may wind up a failed pervert with a mind burdened with memories. But during sexual tourism, remember, the face of God isn’t just in vaginas.

As a bit of an addendum: even if you don’t go full throttle degenerate, get off the fucking internet and live. It’s been said the only sin in life is to be boring. If you’re in your late teens/early twenties, do you want to hit thirty only to realize you pissed away youth wanking on Snapchat? Could there be anything more fucking depressing than a life with no interesting stories?

Christians say Jesus died for your sins. He dangled on the cross like a pussy. Fuck that. Be better. Be the person who lives for them.

Sebastian Vice is the founder of Outcast-Press, an indie publishing company specializing in transgressive fiction and dirty realism. His poetry and short fiction has, or will, appear in Punk Noir Magazine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Close To The Bone, Terror House Magazine, and the anthology In Filth It Shall Be Found.