Narcissism – and you can too!

I am was a narcissist. Yes, I stand on the cliff of introspection at that 12^th step where you shout your resolve proudly to the world.

Narcissism is not an easy problem to solve because by its very definition, it requires the user to live in a delusional world of self-importance, which preempts one’s ability to admit faults. Additionally, narcissism is not per se a problem unless it errs more on the side of psychopathy or Machiavellianism – and when it does….Damn! That shit makes some good thriller writing – have you read Gone Girl yet?

I at least had have empathy.

Anyway, I clung myself to narcissism only because I found myself addicted to sex. Sexual addiction often neighbors narcissism; two sinful peas in a pod. Sexual addiction, of course, sprouted within me like a weed from insecurities. Insecurities? Well, I grew up a self-hating, closeted, gay ugly duckling in Texas.

Whew!

But my tale is not original: sexual addiction and self-involvement consistently arise from insecurities. Why do you think the archetypical whore continually pops up in storytelling? And why do you think some of your Facebook friends post shirtless photos of their ripped muscles with captions like: Fatty. ? To some it’s relatable, to others fascinating.

I came to the conclusion I was a narcissist when I reflected on my relationship history and social media usage.

I started dating at the age of 18. Having never truly dated until that point, intimacy remained alien to me. Like many other gaybies, sexual, NOT intimate, experimentation inaugurated my debut from the closet. As such, my definition of ‘love’ centered on a sexual relationship.

Luckily, my first two boyfriends were very ‘good’ at sex. When it’s boiled down, sex is simply acting, a performance. You must feel safe in order to perform. Well, sexual chemistry abounded with my 2 first, military boyfriends and served as my only tool to communicate infatuation.

It wasn’t until I met Ian that I learned there can be relationships completely devoid of sexual chemistry.

Most of the men in Tucson looked like walking burritos: disproportional and bulbous. But tall, blonde, with cobalt eyes deep enough to dive into, Ian didn’t look like the other boys circling Tucson’s singular gay club. Ian was the trophy boy the mean gays wanted but couldn’t obtain. My competitive alter ego had to have him.

Within a week of dating Ian, I knew I didn’t like him. He complimented himself in the mirror. He used the word I & me far too habitually. He spoke often and listened rarely. Regardless, I thought I could use Ian as a living dildo. There weren’t other viable dating options in our small city and a safe place holder never hurt anyone. Did I mention he lived in my complex? Very convenient.

But he didn’t value sex.

Ian would spasm to hump and he never kissed. The best sex comes when you break down your walls of disgust to share in your shameful fantasies. But all the ickiness that comes with sex offended Ian – sweat, cum, spit, orifices. Sex with Ian was systematic, evenly cadenced, and sterile; it felt more like a medical procedure.

He just didn’t seem to have any fun and remained eerily quiet during each ‘session’. I wanted to smack him and scream, we aren’t fucking in a library- show some enthusiasm, dammit. Fuccckk MEE! Of course I didn’t feel comfortable enough with him to perform that line. I did try to elicit some moans by forcing them out from the gut of my lungs. He ignored me. To my face. During sex. If I have insecurities, I at least have excuses for them. I’ll be sure to charge future therapy sessions to Ian.

But I hit a wall. Sex flowed naturally for me before, like a calm creek. Sex with Ian was choppy, I felt as if I were fighting against white water rapids. I was incredibly frustrated and began to feel very insecure. Am I not attractive enough? Am I not what he wants in the bedroom? I think about sex nonstop, why does he never seem to think about it? Is it possible he’s an alien and just needs to be socialized/learn what sex is?

With prior boyfriends, we reveled in each other. Two tongues explored each other deeply, excavating the dark moist cavities normally reserved for a toothbrush. Rather than finding disgust as I would with anyone else, I found excitement and permission. The union is privileged and sealed by the kiss.

Ian wouldn’t kiss, which as an Italian was a major issue. We fucking love to kiss; passion courses through our veins. But Ian was not Italian. He was Russian and as icy as Siberia. (Long story, but Ian later turned out to be a sociopath – which could explain why the sex was drier than a C-SPAN marathon). His brain was blocked by his own delusions and need for control. Intimate sex requires vulnerability, something Ian, or any sociopath, couldn’t give up.

During my Ian phase, where I suffered through three months of banal bedroom activity, I witnessed my sociopathic boyfriend manipulate others with his dark charm. I saw my friends falling for his perfect face that hid his two-sided feelings so well. I’d say things like, “Oh, Tiffany really liked you! You guys seemed to hit it off.” And he’d respond, “yea, she’s kind of a dumb cunt though, isn’t she?” Ian scared me because he was the first non-human I dated. I mean, you have to have a heart to be a human, right?

I also scared myself thinking I recognized traits in him that were also in me. I mean, I stayed in the relationship solely to use him for sex. We also shared bad social media habits. For example, his Facebook made him appear to be a legitimate fashion model – solely through careful Facebook management. I also used Facebook for dubious purposes. Facebook didn’t reflect my actual life, just a hyperbolic digital one. But I LOVED those likes!

After Ian, I maintained a series of short, walled off relationships, solely to secure sexual partners without looking like a slut – continuing my narcissist streak. I was over trying to make real relationships work. All the dates and conversation I had with men? That was all foreplay that I rolled through to get to bed.

Part of securing these prospects requires careful PR with social media accounts. What is your Facebook but a dating profile highlighting your awesome-ness without revealing your whore-ness? I, like Ian, programmed my Facebook so I appeared non-dramatic, fun-loving, but also intellectual (oh… and single). I suppose those traits truly do define me (you can shove it if you think I’m dramatic, bitch) but my showcasing of them felt dirty and cheap. I realized, in true narcissistic nature, my Facebook was a Jake display case to attract men. How sad.

I’m not sure if it’s because I dabble in PR with my job now or because I’m in a relationship, but I suddenly find myself very conservative in my Facebook posts. It might be because in the past year I’ve received a slew of friend requests from acquaintances to co-workers, managers, and clients. Due to the acquisition of new ‘friends’ I’ve forced myself to detach slightly from my social profile. My Facebook would need to be less personal.

But after I escaped the Facebook rabbit hole, expunging my vain posts crying for attention, I developed a more conscientious observation of its users. I noticed something strange. After wading through the satirical news stories, actual news stories, and a consortium of music videos, I saw people. Lonely people. It seems almost ironic that social media is inherently anti-social because it shifts human communication by ejecting the human2human medium.

One of humanity’s greatest desires is connection: we want to feel we’ve been heard and we want to feel validated. Social media provides this for us the way meth does its users. At first, it makes you feel great; those likes get you so high. But as you continue to use it and as your addiction continues to propagate, you depart farther and farther from reality. Only, you don’t recognize it until it’s too late.

To the beautiful girl posting her daily selfie for her “fans”: Your fans aren’t interested if they were bought from team #followback. When they like your photo? They don’t actually like it, they just hope that by putting the work in (i.e. liking/commenting photos) you’ll reciprocate the favor. Do you see what a house of cards this whole game is? And for what end? Additionally, the fact that you need to post photos constantly for empty compliments suggests you are dependent on external validation. Strength comes from within. If you spent more time investing in real, tangible relationships, you wouldn’t feel so lonely maintaining superficial, digital ones.

To the individual liking literally every single thing on their feed: why do you need to live vicariously through others? Are you not living yourself? Humans can only realistically have 150 true friends. (Dunbar’s number, look it up). So if you pull the excuse that you just want to keep up with all your friends, I call bullshit, especially if it’s over 2K.

To the couple who needs to share every private love note, every intimate moment for your friends: have you ever heard of romance? Romance consists of beautiful, private moments two individuals share. Romance is not manipulating your relationship to leverage likes or followers. I believe there’s an inverse relationship between a relationship’s success and how often it is posted about on social media.

One morning a love note left behind for someone was posted to Facebook: Oh, look at what hubby left me today. Let’s say hubby left him a present, okay, maybe then I could see the point of posting that, you’re excited about your new gift. But posting the love note someone left you? For what reason? To brag? Na na nan a na, my boyfriend writes me love notes. Well your boyfriend also can’t spell for shit. Additionally, are you going to write an epic love poem, exposing all your vulnerabilities to your lover if you think they will post it on social media? NO! You guys are killing romance!

For my boyfriend’s birthday, I decorated 37 envelopes with 37 different heart designs (can you guess how old he is?). I then filled each envelope with a different trait I loved about him. Finally I tied gift wrapping ribbon to each envelope and hung them from the ceiling in his apartment. I did this as an act of love … for him. There were no Facebook photos or videos about it because this was special. If I went in designing this gift for the likes it would garner on Facebook, I would question who I love more, my followers or my partner.

Obviously I’m present on social media. I also have a few selfies and a shirtless photo or two swimming around, but life is about balance – that includes social media. Do not fall down the narcissistic rabbit hole or you will end up a slave to your own need for validation and eventually be that guy who sets up his phone on a timer to take naked photos in their room (hello, get a hobby!). You’re beautiful, you’re above that. Have you ever read Fahrenheit 451 ? Your iphones are distracting you from actually living.

That filter and square frame never gives a sunset justice. Your 10K followers don’t give a shit about you as a human. All that time you spend maintaining your ‘influencer’ status? It’s keeping you from developing true, deep friendships that give life meaning.

I managed to claw my way out and I’m happy I did. Otherwise, I’d just be another shirtless gay guy on Instagram posting clouds of meaningless hashtags searching for empty validation and fucking my way into a lonely middle age. How much of life would I miss out on doing so?

Oh – and back to sexual addiction. By escaping my narcissism, I managed to alleviate (somewhat) my insatiable sexual appetite. But here’s the thing, sex is not egalitarian or agreeable. Some of us have no sex drive, which drives us mad. Other have too much of a sex drive, also driving us mad. We are all neurotic in obsessing over the sex we are longing to have or struggling to avoid. Sex bleeds to all parts of our brains and lives. It can make or destroy relationships. It can threaten productivity. It’s not exactly a concentric circle within love either. Whatever it is, it’s obvious we are all wired differently. Part of a relationship’s success depends on finding a mate who aligns with your sexual subconscious (or lack thereof). That’s what I’ve learned in my … ahem … extensive dating research.