In my younger years, I was what would be described as a “player.” I put a lot of effort into sleeping with a lot of women. Unfortunately, for a time, it was an integral part of my identity, which wasn’t healthy.
I was that guy who was juggling four different Lauren’s in his phone and couldn’t remember which one he texted what to. But I didn’t care, because there was always another Lauren just around the corner.
It was a fun life, but it was also shallow and, aside from my own ego trip, more or less meaningless.
My obsession with my penis of course was merely an outcrop of my deeper insecurities around intimacy and commitment -- namely, I was abso-fucking-lutely terrified to let myself get too close to someone, and so instead of fulfilling my need for love through quality relationships, I pursued quantity.
A side effect of this was that for many years I entertained a number of beliefs around commitment and marriage that justified my own behavior. Marriage was an antiquated tradition, I believed. Men and women are biologically wired to be promiscuous. Cheating is inevitable and life-long commitment is not only impractical, but tantamount …