Portrait of the Artist’s Libido

My initial intention was to draw a caricature of my sex drive, one of the many creatures of my mind. This particular one is a real monster.

This is the start of a larger experiment, an attempt to create a full taxonomy of the monsters in my head. The real beginning may have been when I wrote a full article on the Mind Fuckler, a little weasel-monkey that chews on my brain, but now the effort begins in earnest.

The human mind needs symbolism in order to understand things. It creates characters to represent the world and the forces in it, and tells stories about them in order to understand their relationship. It also does this for aspects of itself. Mythology is the native language of the human brain, its internal computing code. Wherever the mind looks, it sees daemons.

The purpose of drawing these characters is to bypass my digital left brain, with its obsession with correct verbiage and syntax, and retrieve these things straight from my analog ne’er-do-well right brain. A blank piece of paper and a couple pencils. You should be able to creatively fuck anything with that.

What you see at top is what came out of the fucked up depths of my mind. Crudely drawn, but honest and expressive in a certain way that my words aren’t. I took a stick and poked it into the mud at the bottom of a black creek and pulled up sludge that had never seen the light of day. This is what it looks like to our light-based vision.

This is my sex drive. He’s one ugly bastard. Pathetic, but creepy and repulsive enough that women don’t pity him. He’s into some weird shit. He’s crazed and mad. He’s asymmetrical—his right arm and hand are enlarged from pleasuring himself—he’s so isolated that the only way for him to get off is to execute a manual override.

This is what a natural, healthy sex drive turns into when you lock it in solitary confinement for over ten years.

This is what I feel like around women.

There’s an inherent creepiness to being male that’s hard to get around. As the one with the penis, you’re the aggressor, you’re the one who wants to do something to the female. The obvious trouble with thinking this way is that females require you, the male, to be the horny bastard who just wants sex so that she can be the conservative female who requires you to show that you value her before she lets you inside. You have to allow her the opportunity to turn you down. That’s how it works. It’s gallant and chivalrous. No girl fantasizes about a boy who’s too polite to try to make a move on her.

This arrangement is troubling for guys who don’t like feeling creepy. We may not be the only ones who are honest with ourselves about our true intentions with females, but we’re always keenly aware of what we really want—and we assume the female doesn’t want that.

Normal folks and psychopaths are both capable of dark feelings and evil behavior. The difference is that normal people feel bad about it and psychopaths don’t. At least I’m normal in that regard.

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